


Trials, Temptation and Triumph

by alassenya



Series: Charlie and Rory [3]
Category: Lost, Urban Ghost Story (1998)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Addiction, Glasgow toughs, M/M, Manchester, Monaboyd, Murder, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 103,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alassenya/pseuds/alassenya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie and Rory rebuild their lives together after Charlie's year away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Penitent

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Originally posted at Dreamwidth from Sep 2009-March 2010 and Nov-Dec 2013.  
> 2\. Thanks go to HisNiblets for insightful comments and some role-playing assistance in the later parts of the story, and to Sassywitch, Glasgowhobbit and Billyhasmyheart for their input and encouragement. A special thank you goes to "Cap'n Pucky" for technical advice in Ch 6.

  


**1.1 Crime and Punishment**

_Sunday 06 July 2003, London_

It was sheer bad luck that Charlie was on his way back from the dealer when he was pulled over. He should have been more careful—he shouldn't have been speeding; he should have paid more attention to the road; he should have kept an eye out for police cars. He brought the car to a stop at the side of the road and watched the policeman approaching him, the bright yellow jacket flapping in the evening breeze.

"Good evening, sir. Are you aware that you were going over the speed limit?"

"Actually no, I wasn't. I'm very sorry, I should have been paying more attention."

"We recorded you as doing 45 miles an hour in a 30 zone. Do you have your driver's licence on you?."

"Of course." Charlie reached across to his jacket, which was sprawled across the passenger seat, and extracted his wallet. He took out the licence and handed it to the policeman, who inspected it carefully. With a bit of luck the man would just write the ticket and he could be on his way.

"Is this your car, sir?"

"Yes." At least, until the insurance was due, and after that, only as long as he could hide it. He was living on a wing and a prayer as it was, and a vintage MG was a luxury he couldn't really afford any more.

The man walked around the front of the vehicle, noting the registration number and the MOT disc.

 _Oh, please get on with it_. Charlie was twitchy, he knew it, and tried to stay still, but it was a huge effort. He could see the policeman out of the corner of his eye, looking more and more suspicious.

"Is there anything wrong, sir?"

"No, nothing." He was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"In a bit of a hurry, were you?"

"Yes."

"Something important to get to?"

"No, I just wanted to get home."

The policeman bent down and sniffed. Fuck! He shouldn't have had that whisky before he left—but he had needed something just to settle his nerves. He should have rung the fucking dealer and told him to deliver. Sod the risk and the three-hour delay—it would have been a lot safer than this. He couldn't afford to get picked up for DUI again—he'd lose his licence for sure.

"Have you been drinking today, sir?"

"I just had the one."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd just blow in here, sir. Hmm, either you forgot a couple or it was a very large one. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave the car here and come down to the station with me."

He waited for the policeman to turn away, so that he could at least slip the stuff out of his pocket, but the man kept his gaze fixed firmly on Charlie as he got out of the car. Fuck—this was going to take hours, and he was feeling nauseated already—that was why he had made the trip, after all, so he wouldn't have to wait. The small package in his trouser pocket suddenly felt the size of a brick. Surely the man could see it? Maybe not.

The journey to the station was mercifully short. He gave the two breath samples—36 and 38. The sergeant was quite encouraging at first, until the record of the previous offence from January came up on the computer. After that, of course, there was no more talk of "just a caution" and he was told bluntly that he was going to lose his licence. He was escorted to an interview room while the charge sheet was written up.

They were busy for a Sunday, and it was over an hour later that the sergeant came back into the room with paperwork in triplicate. Charlie was really starting to feel it by then—the nausea, chills, jangling nerves, sweating (though he hoped he could blame that on the weather). He couldn't stop the fidgeting, and any minute ...

"You're looking quite unwell. sir. Have you taken anything besides alcohol this evening?"

"No—not at all." _Think calm. Keep still. Be confident_.

The man looked at his eyes and his skin. "Are you on any prescription medications?"

"No."

"Would you mind emptying your pockets?"

Yes, he bloody well would mind, but he knew how that would look. Oh, fuck, he was totally screwed. Three days' supply in his right pocket—nearly two hundred sodding quids' worth—and there was no way they could overlook it. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Just put everything on the table here."

 _Oh, bugger_. Still, there was a small chance... he might possibly be able to...

Charlie reached into his back pocket and took out a couple of notes, then his keys and some change out of the front left, placing them on the table with a flourish. He picked up his jacket and took out his wallet and a few loose pieces of paper from the inside pocket there. He put his jacket down and looked directly at the police sergeant. "There you are."

"I believe you may have overlooked one, Mr Pace. The right trouser pocket, if you please."

Charlie's shoulders slumped. _Oh well, it was worth a try_. His hand slid into the pocket and brought out the small plastic bag with its foil-wrapped hits. He bit his lip as he dropped it on the table.

The sergeant barely reacted as he took the bag and opened one of the foils. He looked at the slightly off-white powder and then up at Charlie. His expression was almost sympathetic as he said, "Well, sir, it really doesn't seem to be your evening, does it?"

~~~~~

The list of charges he was facing was surprisingly long: unlawful possession of a controlled drug; driving with excess alcohol; speeding; and several other variations on the same themes. He was actually lucky, he'd been told—the amount he had on him was almost enough to warrant a charge of 'possession with intent to supply'. He got the impression that the police thought they were doing him a favour by not pushing the 'supply' charge. He tried hard to look as if he appreciated it.

The young constable sitting with him was a chatty Asian lad, Indian or Pakistani, by the look of him. He had recognised the name, of course—Charlie wasn't sure if that was a comfort or just more embarrassment—and tried to make him feel a bit better by making small talk while they waited for the sergeant to return.

"Well, you're not the first rock star we've had in here, of course. Can't say who, of course, but we see a few. Speeding, DUI, possession—pot, crack, smack—yeah, well, I guess you've got the money for it, haven't you, and you don't have to worry about losing your job like most of them. Almost required, innit? I even had one bloke in here—no names, of course, but he hadn't had a hit in years—he actually said the arrest would do him some good. It would 'lift his profile'. I mean, with an attitude like that, what can you do?" Belatedly, he seemed to realise that Charlie might be in need of a profile lift as well. "Not that I'm implying anything, of course."

"Of course," Charlie murmured.

After a humiliating interlude involving urine specimens (under direct observation), fingerprints, cheek swabs for DNA, photographs and a full body search, he was interviewed again, and then taken to a holding cell while the charge sheets and statements were typed up. He'd been advised to get a bit of a kip, but he was too worked up to sleep—he still hadn't had his fix and his nerves were jangling. His foot was tap-tap-tapping on the floor and he couldn't stop it, not even if he leant on his knee with all his weight.

He couldn't stop the young policeman's words from running through his head, either: "... but he hasn't had a hit in years". Well, Charlie hadn't, either. He was a 24-year-old has-been with no job, no band, no 'project in the pipeline', no prospects. He couldn't get an interview if he begged on hands and knees. But one incidental arrest and his name would be all over the papers. He'd make headlines tomorrow, and they would all say "rock star".

 _Oh yes_ , he told himself, _you're a real bright fucking star now_.

He wondered how long it would take him to burn out.

~~~~~

It was even more humiliating to face his sister, who turned up late that night after his phone call, radiating disapproval and embarrassment in equal portions.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Mum and dad are going to be so ashamed of you."

He stuck his chin out and glared at her. He knew that, he knew it was going to be painfully embarrassing for the whole family, but he didn't want to be reminded of it. "Shut it Tess. Just get me out of here."

"Can't."

"What? Why the hell not?"

"You've got a magistrate thingy in the morning and then they'll let you out on bail. God only knows how much that's going to be."

"Fuck." Charlie thought about it. He didn't actually have that much money left—six months of London rents and partying for himself and his friends had drained away his money like water. He'd need money for a solicitor too, and a barrister when the case came to court. He'd have to sell the car—he'd have no use for it anyway, not if his licence was going to be suspended for a year—and with a little luck that would cover his legal fees. Then he'd have to find somewhere else to live, since the rent was only paid up until the end of the month, and after that he would be out on the street.

"Can't I move in with you for a while?" he asked, knowing the answer before he even spoke.

"No, you can't. There's no room anyway, and I'm not going to embarrass myself and my friends by having my deadbeat brother kipping on the sofa. Why don't you go back to Manchester?"

Charlie grimaced. Manchester meant either Rory of his parents' place. Rory was out of the question, and he really didn't want to end up back at home, not again. Every time he tried to get away, it seemed that something pulled him back, and he hated that as much as he hated everything else in his life at the moment. He wondered if Pat would take him in—but that wasn't likely. He'd fallen out with Pat, too, after having missed the wedding in February. "I'll work something out," he muttered. "I just have to get out of here."

"Tomorrow."

He grunted. He was already well into withdrawal, it was like ants creeping through his body, a thousand tiny pinpricks every second. He felt sick, too, and cold, and he hoped he wouldn't throw up before they let him out.

He watched Tess walk away, and returned to his cell to spend the night in pacing and humming and trying his best to ignore the all-consuming need for heroin.

The next day was worse, if anything, with his mother turning up at midday to sign him out. He'd been before the magistrate that morning, and remanded on bail to appear again on 3rd September. He wasn't sure why they couldn't deal with it on the spot, but after a sleepless night and in the grip of withdrawal, he was barely conscious of the world around him. All he could think about was getting a fix, and as soon as he was outside the police station he grabbed his mobile phone and called his dealer.

Fuck his mother. Fuck the police. Fuck the stupid music business. Fuck everything in the world. There was only one thing he cared about, and that was heroin, and if it meant seeing the horrified look on his mother's face as she heard him speaking, then that was a price he was willing to pay.

Heroin was his life now.

  


_London, 03 September 2003_

It was two months later that his case finally came to court. The weather was unseasonably warm, and the lack of ventilation in the courtroom made it unbearably hot. Charlie was finding it difficult enough to concentrate without the added burden of impending heat stroke. He knew he should listen to the magistrate's speech, that he should be polite and attentive and not swear or scratch his backside ... he knew all that, but it was so awfully hot and humid in here that he wanted to tear off his jacket and shirt and scream.

It wasn't as if it was a difficult case, after all. He even did the police the courtesy of pleading guilty to all charges, though his solicitor (well, the one Meg had insisted he see) said that he might have a case against the "driving with excess alcohol" one, since he was only just over the limit and the equipment might have been faulty. He refused that option though. He might well be a drunken, drug-addicted, has-been musician, but he knew when he was guilty. It wouldn't make any difference to his licence, anyway—that was dead and gone.

The main benefit of pleading guilty was that he was likely to get off with a minimal sentence, or so said counsel, who'd been working what deals she could with the prosecution. She couldn't do much about the licence, of course—it was a mandatory 12-month disqualification—but as for the rest of it, he was likely to get a hefty fine, and possibly a suspended sentence or community service order if the magistrate had indigestion. The voluntary rehabilitation course he'd signed up for—after innumerable family arguments and some stern advice from his solicitor—was also in his favour, as was the fact he'd already completed the first two weeks of it, and while it was about as much fun as a wet weekend in Wigan, it was worth it if it kept him out of prison.

He swallowed as he thought about the possibility of prison. It wasn't likely, everyone said that, but it was still possible. It was all up to the magistrate. He wondered if she was a DriveShaft fan. He wondered if her children were. He wondered if she hated the band and wanted to "make an example of him".

He felt nauseated as he wondered how long he'd survive, inside. He'd seen the documentaries; he'd read some of the stories about things that happened there. There were people inside who made Rory McManus and his Da look like saints, and he wasn't going to kid himself that being Rory's rent-boy for a month was any sort of preparation for what he'd go through in prison.

He caught himself fiddling with his collar again and forced his hands down. Must keep the hands still. Counsel told him that. _Don't fidget,_ she said _. It'll make the magistrate think you're not listening. Stay still, keep your eyes down, speak when you're spoken to, be polite and respectful. Show that you're sorry_.

He was sorry. He was so very, very sorry. He was more sorry than anyone had ever been in the history of civilisation, and he would continue to be sorry until he was out of here and had finished the stupid rehab course. And although he was over the worst of the withdrawal now, it still felt like his nerves were trying to climb out of his skin. He felt like screaming. He felt like running away and never coming back.

If only this were over ... if only he could walk out of here ... if only it weren't so _hot_.

  


**1.2 The Depths of Despond**

_Tuesday 30th December 2003_

Charlie hadn't had a good Christmas.

He hadn't had a good year, to be truthful. Ever since he'd stormed out of Rory's flat, exactly one year ago, he'd been on a spiral down to hell, and now ... well, now he was there, in a hell that was almost entirely of his own making, and he didn't know how he was ever going to get back to reality.

He coughed, and clutched his side. That last kick had hurt. He didn't think the ribs were broken, but they were certainly sore, as was his leg. Fucking Tuomi. Fucking bloody Finn. He'd never trust anyone with blond hair ever again.

He wandered around the train station, trying to look inconspicuous while he thought about what to do. He had to get back to Manchester. That was the one thought that had been running around his head for the last few days. Ironic really—even four months ago the prospect of a return home had been nauseating; now it seemed like a rosy but unachievable dream. He'd give anything to go back now—back to Rory, back to his mother, back to where he was safe—but he didn't have the money. He saw the ATM, and pulled the card out of his back pocket—one of the few things he'd managed to find when he'd escaped. He entered his PIN and checked his account, hoping that perhaps some royalties might have been put in, but there was nothing. He had—he brought the coins out of his pocket and counted them again—one pound fifty-six pence. A year ago he'd been on top of the world, driving a vintage MG and throwing money around as if it were confetti. Now he was destitute—he was more broke than he had been three years ago, before it all began, and that had been hard enough. At least in those days he'd known he could always fall back on Liam, or his mother. Now Liam was in Sydney and his mother was in Manchester—and it didn't matter which was further, since he didn't have the money to get to either one of them. He was alone and broke and injured and cold and—though he hated to admit it—rather frightened. What was he going to do? What on earth could he possibly do now?

He didn't even know why he was here, at Euston station. It was just the furthest he'd been able to walk in the hours since he had run from Tuomi's flat, and his feet hurt even more than the rest of him, and he was exhausted, and he just didn't feel like walking any further. He was cold and hungry and thirsty and flat broke. He looked at the sandwich kiosk—he could smell the food from where he sat, and it made him aware of how long it had been since he'd last eaten. He couldn't even afford a bottle of water, let alone food. He'd just have to sit here for a while and try to work out what to do, where he could go so that Tuomi couldn't find him.

He found himself a seat on a bench and watched as the trains came in and out. A policeman wandered by, and then again, looking at him a little more closely the second time. Charlie could tell he was being marked as a possible vagrant, troublemaker, thief, terrorist—a bad person, a person to be watched and noted and kept under suspicion. He took the hint and got to his feet so he could move along, away from the police, away from the nice, respectable, ordinary people.

He shuffled over to the men's toilets, wincing as the blisters on his feet screamed for his attention. Why the fuck hadn't he taken a pair of Tuomi's socks? That would at least have saved him from the blisters. But he knew why—he couldn't bear to take anything out of there except his own belongings, the things he'd taken in with him. He didn't want anything that might cause him to remember what had happened, or, worse, to give Tuomi an excuse to have him arrested. He cupped his hands under the tap and drank, ignoring the rust-stains on the cracked porcelain, the dull corrosion of the brass fittings. The water was harsh and tasted of chalk and chemicals, but it was free, and it slaked his thirst.

He went into one of the cubicles and shut the door behind him. It was a refuge, of sorts, until someone noticed that he wasn't moving. He dropped his head on his hands and tried to make sense of the last few days.

No. He didn't want to think about the last few days. He didn't want to think of what he'd been doing, of what Tuomi had done to him, all the filth and degradation and pain. He wanted to go home. That's all he wanted to do. He wanted to go home, to go back in time twelve months, maybe more, to before he'd ever seen heroin for the first time. He wanted his mum. He wanted Rory. Oh, God, he wanted Rory. _Please God, let me see Rory one more time_.

He sat there for a few more minutes, listening as men hurried in and hurried out. Someone rattled the door, and he figured he'd spent enough time in there to arouse suspicions. He waited another minute, then got up, rustled his clothing and ostentatiously flushed before unlocking the door.

The washroom was deserted, and Charlie surmised that whoever had been in such a hurry had either left or gained access to one of the other cubicles. He washed his hands and took another mouthful of water.

As he straightened up, he caught sight of something on the floor—a ticket. He picked it up and looked at it. He blinked, then looked at it again, because he couldn't believe what he saw—it the return half of a ticket from Manchester to London, still valid. Still valid. Oh God, this was a miracle—a ticket home!

There was a flurry behind him, and a man rushed in, looking distressed. He scanned the floor, simultaneously muttering under his breath and patting his pockets. "I dropped my train ticket. Have you seen a ticket here anywhere? I only dropped it a few minutes ago." He barely spared a glance for Charlie.

Charlie's hand closed around the ticket in his hand. His first instinct was to deny all knowledge of it, to keep it for himself. He needed it more, after all—he had nothing, and this man had money, he could see that. This man could afford to buy a new ticket, if Charlie kept the one he'd found. He didn't even have to lie. All he had to do was stay silent, pretend he didn't speak English, stick his hand in his pocket and walk out of here. No one would blame him, not when he was so desperate. All he had to do was play dumb for a few more seconds. All he had to do ...

And yet ...

And yet ... he found himself holding out his hand, displaying the ticket— _his_ ticket home!—to the man, whose eyes lit up.

"Thanks, that's it!" The man reached out, but hesitated. He stopped, and looked at Charlie, at the ticket, at the thin hand that held it out. Something in Charlie's eyes must have spoken to him, because he stilled, and looked more carefully.

"You were planning on using this yourself?"

Charlie nodded. "I—I live in Manchester." His voice was croaky, and he realised that it was the first time he'd spoken all day. "I want to go home." He shrugged his shoulders. "No money."

The man looked him over. Charlie knew what he was seeing—the dirt, the crumpled clothing, the curious absence of socks. He must look like a tramp, or worse ... no one important, no one of any account.

The man nodded. "You keep it."

"What?"

"You keep it. I'll get another one." He smiled. "My wife's always telling me I need to be a little more charitable, and it's still the festive season, after all."

"Thanks," whispered Charlie, stunned.

The man turned to leave, but turned back one last time. "Happy New Year," he said with a smile.

"Happy New Year," Charlie repeated.

He was left alone in the washroom, staring dazedly at the ticket in his hand. His ticket home. His ticket to salvation.

~~~~~

The journey to Manchester seemed to take forever, but in reality was only three hours long, and he alighted at Piccadilly a little after seven, warmed through, but still hungry and thirsty. He resisted the temptation to buy food, though, and spent the last of his meagre pence on an Evening Rail Ranger ticket (and thank God they were still selling those, he thought, since he couldn't afford anything else).

It was raining outside—not enough to warrant an umbrella, but enough to make everything slightly damp. He waited for the metrolink and coughed again, a tight, dry little cough that made his ribs burn. He must be coming down with a cold. Not surprising really, after all he'd been through. He had a dreadful headache, but at least he didn't have a runny nose. Just as well, since he didn't have a handkerchief, or even a tissue.

He alighted at the station closest to his parents' house and set off to walk the last half-mile. His feet were screaming again—the agony of walking after so long sitting in the train was enough to make him actually take off his shoes and walk barefoot in spite of the cold and the wet. After a while he didn't really feel them, anyway.

He had a premonition of disaster as he approached the house and saw that it was dark, with not a single light anywhere. Even if his mother went to bed early she tended to leave a light on in the hall, but he could see nothing.

He rang the doorbell a few times, but there was no response. They must have gone away for New Year, he realised—probably to Aunt Bridie in Ireland. He sagged against the door, wondering what he ought to do. He didn't really feel like knocking on any of the neighbours' doors—they'd be more likely to call the police, with him looking the way he did. He couldn't even go to Pat's parents, as they'd moved and he didn't know where they were living now. For that matter, he didn't even know where Pat was. Probably spending the holiday season somewhere in a cosy house with his wife, making pretty babies and playing anonymous drums for any band that would pay him.

Charlie stayed with his forehead resting on the door for a few minutes. The only option left, as he saw it, was to go to Rory's flat and hope that he was there, and hadn't moved back up to Glasgow. If he wasn't there ... well, that didn't bear thinking about. But Rory had to be there. He just had to be.

Wearily, he set off back to the station.

Nearly an hour later, he was close to Rory's flat and almost numb from cold. The brief period on the tram hadn't done much to replace the heat he'd lost walking in the rain and he hadn't eaten in over twenty four hours. He was at the end of his strength, and he knew it. For the last few minutes he had been dredging up prayers from his almost-forgotten childhood, trying to find some way of persuading God, Jesus, Mary and all the saints to intervene for him. He prayed for sanctuary. He prayed that Rory was home. He prayed that Rory would let him in, because he had nowhere else to go.

He was whispering a mantra as he walked up the driveway and approached the entrance to the building. "Please let him be there. Please let him talk to me. Please." He was half-delirious and the last remnants of sense told him he was ill, but he'd made it to Rory's, and that was all that counted.

He pressed the buzzer for Rory's flat and leaned against the wall.

"Yes?" The harsh, static-ridden sound burst from the intercom, and Charlie jumped.

"Rory?" His voice came out in a faint squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Rory?"

"Who is it?"

"I... I..." he trailed off. Rory didn't sound at all happy to be interrupted, and he was losing what little hope he had left.

"I don't have time for fucking games, mate. Who are you and what do you want?"

"It's... " he couldn't continue. The harsh, unwelcoming tone in Rory's voice completely overset him. He took a deep breath and tried again. One last time. "It's me. It's Charlie."

"Charlie?"

"Yeah, it's me."

There was silence on the other end, then the line went dead.

"Rory?"

Charlie looked at the intercom for a few seconds, dazed, as the significance of the click slowly became clear to his befuddled brain. Rory had hung up on him. Rory didn't want to see him, didn't want to talk to him. He hadn't pressed the button to let him enter, not even enough so that he could sit in the foyer and get out of the wind. He would have settled for that, he knew, just a little bit of shelter from the elements. It hadn't been too much to ask, had it?

He felt dizzy and sick all of a sudden, and sat down on the steps. He hadn't realised until that moment just how much he had relied on Rory taking him in, and the shock was more than he could cope with. Rory had cut him off without a word, and now he was probably going to die because he simply didn't have the strength to get up and find shelter. He choked on a bitter laugh. Even if he had the strength, he had nowhere else to go. He'd exhausted himself and spent the last of his meagre cash for nothing. He might as well die tonight as any other night.

He looked out at the dark and tried not to sob as he let the darkness overtake him.

  



	2. Prodigal

**2.1 Rescue**

_Tuesday 30 December 2003_

"It's me. It's Charlie." The voice on the other end of the intercom was distorted, and Rory wondered, for a brief moment, if someone could be playing a very cruel joke on him.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah, it's me."

It was him. It really was him. At least ... Rory stared at the handset in disbelief for a second then slammed it back into its cradle, grabbed his keys from the table and raced out of the door and down the stairs. He slipped on one and nearly fell, but righted himself and practically flew down the last landing. As he barrelled through the entrance he called out, "Charlie? Charlie, is that really you?"

There was no answer and Rory felt his gut clench as he saw the huddled figure on the steps. Charlie had sounded ill, but surely he couldn't be -- he couldn't be ... He dropped to his knees and lifted the man's head. It was Charlie. He was almost unrecognisable, his face half hidden by a scraggly bead, his cheeks streaked with dirt and blue with cold, looking old and gaunt ... but it was definitely Charlie. He cradled the unconscious body in his arms, patting Charlie's cheek, trying to get some sort of response.

"Charlie, Charlie, can you hear me?"

Charlie moved and mumbled something that Rory couldn't catch, but it didn't matter. Charlie was alive, and that was the important thing.

"Come on, love, you have to get up. I have to get you inside -- you're so cold -- it's fucking freezing out here." He slid a hand under Charlie's shoulders and tried to lever him up. Charlie's eyes fluttered open at the movement, but they didn't focus on anything and it was obvious that he wasn't fully conscious. Rory sighed and pulled him up by force, holding on to him tightly.

"Come on, Charlie, just a wee bit of a walk and then you'll be in a nice warm bed. Come on, get up. Just a short walk."

"Walk," repeated Charlie. He looked at Rory and appeared to recognise him. "Rory?"

"Yes, it's me. I'm here."

"So tired. Walked for miles."

"That's all right. You're here now. Just a few stairs then you can rest."

Rory shuffled them around and walked them back into the building. He practically carried him upstairs to the flat, and was by turns angry and despairing at how easy it was. Charlie had never been bulky, but now he was just skin and bone.

"Och, laddie, what have ye done to yoursel'?" he muttered.

Once inside the flat he took Charlie straight upstairs to his bedroom. He stripped him of his damp, useless clothes and bundled him under the duvet, switching on the electric blanket for good measure.

Charlie shivered for a couple of minutes, then fell asleep as the electric blanket warmed him. He looked ill and fragile, and Rory sat by the side of the bed for several long minutes, just watching him. He still found it difficult to believe that Charlie had simply turned up out of the blue, clearly desperate and probably sick. But he was here, and Rory couldn't bear to take his eyes away for a minute in case he disappeared, or ... No. Charlie wasn't going to die. Fate couldn't be so cruel as to deliver Charlie to him only to let him die. Could it?

He wondered if he should ring his GP. Charlie had been chilled to the marrow and could easily have pneumonia. He was covered in bruises and there were marks around his wrist that suggested he'd been tied up recently. He hadn't missed the tell-tale marks on his arms either -- Charlie was still using, in spite of the rehabilitation programme he'd taken during the summer, and God only knew what infections he might have picked up.

He felt the icy tendrils of fear creep around his heart as he contemplated the awful possibility that Charlie might already be dying. He shook his head. No! It couldn't be possible. He'd need help and medical care, and Rory would make sure that he got it. Then everything would be all right. It had to be. He would not allow Charlie to die.

"I can't let you go again," he whispered, fiercely. "I won't let you go again, not if I have to chase you halfway around the world. You're mine, Charlie Pace, you've always been mine." He reached out and brushed a stray curl from Charlie's forehead, the gentleness of his touch at odds with the vehemence of his tone.

A glance at the alarm clock showed that it was already after ten. He reassured himself that Charlie wasn't burning up with fever, and his pulse was steady though a bit fast, then decided that he'd ring the doctor in the morning and get her to make a house call. Charlie needed a proper examination, but he could have it here, in the warm, with Rory to help the doctor if necessary. He wasn't going to let Charlie outdoors again until he knew it was safe.

He reached a hand beneath the covers. It was very warm, and he could see Charlie beginning to sweat, so he switched off the blanket, then spent several more minutes just looking at him. Charlie's face was thin and his skin was grimy; a straggling beard covered his chin and his hair looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks. There was a faint yellowish bruise along one cheek, partly obscured by the beard, and Rory recalled the bruises he had seen briefly on the thin form as he had stripped the damp clothes off it. Charlie had been living rough, that much was obvious, but there was something more too, as the marks on his wrists indicated. Rory felt his temper rising as he comtemplated what those marks meant, and vowed that whoever had harmed his lover would pay for it, ten times over. For now, though, there was nothing he could do except make sure that Charlie was safe. Everything else could wait.

He got up and started the nightly round of cleaning up before bed. It took only a few minutes to tidy up the books and CDs downstairs and put the whisky back in the cabinet. As he was about to switch off the lights, his eyes fell on the telephone, and he realised that he should ring Charlie's parents. He reached out for the handset, but paused. It was late -- nearly eleven in the evening, and they'd probably be in bed and asleep -- a phone call at this hour would alarm them. And what if Charlie didn't want them to know he was back in Manchester? What if they didn't want him? No, that was impossible. Rory hadd kept in touch with Meg, and she still worried over Charlie -- she'd cried when she'd told him how he'd walked out of the rehab centre three months ago, leaving no forwarding address. She would never turn her son away, no matter what he had done.

He picked it up and dialled the number that he knew off by heart. There was no answer, though he let it ring out, just in case they were asleep or busy. No answer ... they must not be there. He wondered if Charlie had gone there first. Of course he had, he'd always go to his mother first. But no one was home, and so he'd somehow got himself to Rory's.

Thank God he'd made it.

Rory replaced the handset and switched off the lights. He'd call Meg again in the morning, and he'd keep on calling until he got through, if it took a week. For now, he'd just make sure that Charlie was looked after as well as Meg would expect.

He filled a glass of water and took it upstairs with him, in case Charlie woke during the night. Charlie lay exactly as he had left him: flat on his back, exhausted, driven beyond endurance. His colour wasn't quite so grey, though, and his chest was rising and falling in an even rhythm.

There was nothing more that Rory could do while he was sleeping, except to sleep himself. Having decided that, he brushed his teeth and changed into his pyjamas, and then crawled into bed. He lay there, on his side, watching Charlie breathe, until sleep overtook him.

~~~~~

Rory woke in the middle of the night when Charlie tried to get out of bed -- or, rather, when Charlie lost his balance and fell back onto the bed. He hurried around to Charlie's side and helped him walk the few steps into the en suite bathroom, where Charlie appeared to notice for the first time that he was naked.

"What happened to my clothes?" He sounded dazed.

"I threw them in the bath -- they were all wet."

"Oh."

"I'll get some pyjamas for you. Do you want a shower first?"

Charlie nodded, "Yeah, that would be good."

Rory went to fetch a towel and a pair of warm flannel pyjamas while Charlie relieved himself. He set them down beside the sink and looked over at Charlie, who was staring at him with an odd, desperate look on his face.

"Do you think you can manage on your own?" he asked, indicating the shower.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Charlie steadied himself on the sink and smiled ruefully at Rory. He looked a bit more alert now. "I'm not going to be running any marathons for a while, but I can manage a shower."

"OK. I'll make some tea, then," said Rory, but he didn't move. He wanted to hold Charlie in his arms and not let him go, and he was angry with himself because he was usually the cool, controlled one. Charlie was the emotional one, the demonstrative one, and yet Charlie was the one who was just standing there, looking at him, his expression strangely unreadable.

Slowly, Charlie reached out with one finger and touched Rory on the arm.

Well, that was odd.

"What was that for?"

Charlie looked a little embarrassed. "I thought ... when I woke up, I thought I was dead, for a moment. I thought I'd never be warm again, never see you again, and ..." His eyes filled with tears, but the rest of his words were muffled as Rory surged forward and enveloped him in a hug.

"I'm here. It's real. Don't cry, I'm here. Everything's going to be all right. I'll make everything right. I'll keep you safe. You'll be fine, I promise." Rory was muttering nonsense, trying to convince himself as much as Charlie, trying to touch every inch of Charlie that he could reach, trying to absorb him into his own body. His eyes were stinging and he realised with horror that he was crying too, but he couldn't give up his hold on Charlie to brush the tears away. Instead he buried his face in the hollow of Charlie's neck, and held on for several long minutes until they had both calmed down.

"Are you OK?" whispered Charlie, nuzzling into Rory's ear.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Rory gave a sniff and looked up at the ceiling until the tears receded. He wiped his cheeks with his hand and pulled back only just enough so that he could look at Charlie. "Just a wee bit of a shock, ye ken, turning up like that, out of the blue."

"Sorry."

"It's OK, don't be sorry. I'm glad you're here." He smiled at Charlie and kissed him on the cheek. "Do you need anything else?"

"Glass of water would be nice. I'm really thirsty."

Rory ducked back into the bedroom and returned with a glass of water, which Charlie drained in one go. Rory took the glass from him and set it carefully on the wash-hand basin.

"Do you want something else?" he asked. "Tea? Coffee?"

"Tea. You said you were going to make tea."

"Do you want something to eat? I could do some bacon and eggs."

Charlie looked faintly ill. "Not really hungry."

"When did you last eat, lad?"

"Yesterday. I think. What day is it today?" Charlie bit his lip.

"It's Wednesday morning."

"Monday then."

Rory felt that twisting feeling in his gut again as he pictured Charlie going hungry. He wanted to yell at Charlie for not having come to him sooner, before he had got to this stage, but he didn't know how Charlie would react, and he didn't want to run the risk of Charlie disappearing into the night again.

"You must be ravenous then."

"No, I'm really not hungry."

Rory looked more closely at him. "Are you in withdrawal?" he asked bluntly.

Charlie bit his lip and nodded. "My last fix was Monday, too."

Rory thought frantically. Charlie had taken all his heroin with him when he'd left the year before, and there was no way on earth he was venturing out into the night to try and find a fucking dealer. He had nothing that would help ... no, that was wrong, he did have something. "Would codeine do?"

"Codeine?"

"I had toothache -- ended up with root canal work." He grimaced at the memory. "The usual painkillers weren't enough so the doctor prescribed me some codeine tablets. I only took a couple, I should have the rest of the box here somewhere. It might help tide you over until the morning." He was rummaging in the bathroom cabinet as he spoke,

Charlie nodded, taking the box eagerly. He took four of the tablets with some more water and seemed a bit calmer as he set the glass down. "Thanks. That will help a bit."

"You should eat too. I could do some soup."

"Soup, yeah, that would be OK."

"I'll get that while you have your shower, then." He reached out and cupped Charlie's cheek, reluctant to go, reluctant to let Charlie out of his sight. What if he fainted again? What if he needed something and Rory wasn't there to get it for him?

Charlie must have understood a little of what he was feeling, because he smiled and said, "I'll be fine. Honest. I'm not going to keel over again."

Rory took a deep breath and pulled himself together. "OK. I'll leave you to it." He forced himself to turn around and take the few steps he needed to leave the room.

Soup and toast. Right.

If anyone had told Rory that the last day of the year would start with him standing in the kitchen at four in the morning, making soup and toast for Charlie Pace, he would have thought them barking mad. Yet here he was, shivering a little in the cold (the central heating wouldn't come on for another hour), while Charlie was upstairs in the shower, washing away several weeks of grime and sweat.

Now that he knew Charlie was all right -- hungry and thirsty and in withdrawal, but not dead, not dying of pneumonia -- the emotional surge triggered by the intense fear was shifting into anger, and he gripped the bench until his knuckles were white.

How dare Charlie turn up out of the blue? How dare he scare Rory so badly? How could he just turn up without any warning? What if Rory hadn't been here? What would have happened if -- ?

He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to stay calm. There was no point in being angry with Charlie -- it would only send him away again, and Rory couldn't face that. He had to stay calm. He had to make Charlie feel safe, so that he wouldn't run away, so that he wouldn't go back to the drugs. He had to keep himself under control.

The kettle boiled, and he poured the water into the mugs. The familiar odour of the tea was soothing, and he inhaled a deep breath of it before adding the milk and sugar. When the microwave pinged, he pulled the bowl of soup out, stirring it and putting it on the tray while he buttered the toast. Tea, soup, toast -- all sorted. He picked up the tray and headed up the stairs.

Charlie was sitting in bed, dressed in Rory's flannel pyjamas, clean and warm. He had shaved, too, and looked years younger. The bruise on his cheek was now clearly visible, but Rory gritted his teeth and reminded himself that questions could wait until morning.

It didn't take long for Charlie to finish the meal, though Rory could see that after the first few mouthfuls he was visibly forcing himself to eat. His eyes were drooping by the end, and Rory quickly set the tray aside.

"I think you need some more sleep, lad."

Charlie yawned in agreement and snuggled down under the covers. Rory waited until he had fallen into a deep sleep before he picked up the tray and took it downstairs. He returned a few minutes later, switching off the lights and crawling into bed. Charlie murmured something and Rory reached out a hand to stroke his cheek.

"I'm here, Charlie," he whispered. "You're safe. Go to sleep."

Charlie slept, but Rory lay awake for what seemed like hours, just looking at his prodigal lover, who had so miraculously returned to him. Rory vowed he wouldn't fail him this time. He was going to look after Charlie. He'd sort out whatever mess he'd got himself into, pay off whatever debts he had, and then he'd sit Charlie down and tell him that he was never going to run away again. And this time Charlie would listen. He had to listen. Rory wouldn't allow him to leave again, not when it would destroy the both of them.

He wondered, briefly, if he could get Charlie microchipped.

  
 **2.2 -- Assessing the Damage**

_Wednesday 31st December 2003, 7:30 am_

Rory woke to the strident sound of his alarm clock, which he had forgotten to disable, and cursed. He scrambled to switch it off, but the damage had been done. Charlie opened his eyes in fright, and was still catching his breath when Rory turned to reassure him.

"Sorry. I should have turned it off last night."

Charlie gave a rueful smile. "I always hated that alarm. It always meant you were going to leave."

Rory shook his head. "Not today. I'll ring the office and tell them I won't be in. I don't want to leave you on your own. Not today, not when you just made it here."

"Is Chris still there?"

"Aye, he is. I'll see if he can bring us some groceries on his way home -- save me a trip to the supermarket, at least."

Charlie grinned. "Seems like old times, eh?"

Even Rory had to smile at that, though it brought back memories he would rather have left in decent obscurity -- memories of pain and anguish and despair. He sat up and grabbed his dressing gown, though he'd increased the heat so much overnight that he didn't really need it. He turned back to smile at Charlie. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you for breakfast."

Charlie nodded and snuggled down under the duvet. To Rory's eyes, he was asleep in seconds.

A little more than an hour later, Rory placed two mugs of coffee on the bedside table, and gave Charlie a shake.

"Sorry," muttered Charlie, rubbing his eyes. "Must have fallen asleep again."

"It's OK. I wasn't expecting you to be wide awake." Rory waited while Charlie struggled into a sitting position, then handed him one of the mugs and watched as he took a sip, smiling at the expression on Charlie's face.

He sat down on the side of the bed and ran a hand over Charlie's duvet-covered thigh. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Knackered, actually. But glad to be here."

"I'm glad you're here too."

There was a world of meaning behind the simple words, for both of them. Rory knew they needed to have a long, in-depth talk about what had happened over the last twelve months, and why Charlie had suddenly turned up on Rory's doorstep looking like he hadn't eaten for a fortnight, but that could wait. For now, Rory was just happy to have him here, in his flat, in his bed, where he could look after him and make sure that he was all right.

"Do you feel up to some breakfast?"

"Thought I had that earlier."

"Well, second breakfast. Elevenses. Brunch."

Charlie smiled. "Well, if you're offering... I guess it's the usual choice?"

"Toast or cereal or eggs."

"You don't change, do you?"

"No. Something you should be thankful for." _Bugger_. He shouldn't have said that.

Charlie bent his head. "Sorry," he muttered.

Rory cursed his stupidity. He was still blazingly angry with Charlie for having left him, even while he was pathetically grateful that Charlie had come back, but he knew he had to keep himself under control, not let Charlie see the anger -- at least not now, not while things were so fragile. Later on would be OK. They'd deal with it later on.

"Charlie, I'm sorry." He cupped Charlie's free hand in his own. "We still have issues, I know. But never doubt that I want you here, with me. Never doubt that for one second." He lifted Charlie's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. It was a gesture he'd never made before, but he'd promised himself, in the long, empty months since their final argument, that if Charlie ever did return, he would make the effort to show Charlie how much he loved him; how much Charlie meant to him. It was worth losing a bit of dignity for that -- at least in private.

He knew it had been the right thing to do when he saw Charlie's expression -- wonder and astonishment and love. Encouraged, he turned the hand over and pressed a kiss into the palm.

Charlie almost threw his mug onto the bedside table and launched himself forward, sliding his hand around to Rory's nape and pulling him in for a kiss.

They kissed, and it was amazing, like kissing for the very first time. All the fear and anger and uncertainty melded together into something new and visceral and desperate as they clung to each other. They shifted, unconsciously, until they were holding each other tightly, mouths moving over smooth skin, tongues seeking each other out. Rory wanted to absorb Charlie into himself, hold him inside where he'd be safe and warm forever and could never leave.

He felt himself getting hard, and pulled back. He wanted to roll Charlie over and bugger him senseless, but he didn't know what Charlie had been through in the past year, and he didn't want Charlie to think that he only wanted him for sex. He remembered all too clearly what Charlie had said during their final argument, that he still treated him like a rent-boy. Well, he didn't. He'd never really thought of Charlie as a rent-boy, not even when he'd been at his beck and call that first month in 1999, and he certainly didn't now. He had to control himself so that he didn't scare Charlie off again, so that Charlie could set the pace, so that he could feel safe and comfortable.

He kissed Charlie again, but gently, this time, trying to tell him with his touch that he loved him, that he cared for him, that he wanted Charlie to stay even if they never had sex again.

Not that that was likely, thank Christ.

Eventually, reluctantly, he pulled out of the embrace. Planting one final kiss on Charlie' s forehead, he got up, saying, "I'd better go and get that breakfast for you."

Charlie looked disappointed, but didn't argue.

"Got to get you eating again," Rory continued. "Got to fatten you up for Easter." He flicked Charlie's nose and received a rather sad smile in return. He made himself get up and leave the room, while every nerve was screaming at him to keep Charlie in sight, to slide under the sheets with him and fuck him until they both passed out.

Breakfast didn't take long to make (three fried eggs, three slices of bacon and two slices of toast for Charlie, toast and marmalade for himself) and he almost ran back up the stairs in his eagerness to see his Charlie again.

He sat and watched Charlie put away every mouthful, and made him drink another mug of hot sweet coffee before settling him down again.

He checked his watch: it was ten to nine. "I'm going to ring the doctor, see if she'll make a house call."

"Don't need a doctor."

"Yes, you do. You were chilled to the bone when you got here last night -- your clothes were all damp and you hadn't eaten in two days. You need to get checked out, make sure you aren't getting double pneumonia, for a start."

Charlie tensed up a bit, but nodded. "Yeah, I guess so."

Rory hesitated, before continuing. "I'm going to ask her to prescribe methadone for you. If ... if you're prepared to take it, that is."

Charlie's expression grew morose. "Don't have much choice, do I?"

Rory reached for Charlie's hand again. "I can't force it on you, love. It has to be your decision."

"That's not what you said last year."

"I was wrong last year."

There was a long silence as Charlie digested the enormity of Rory's admission. Rory felt acutely exposed, but he'd made his mind up and he wasn't going to back down now. He'd told himself -- he'd even told Meg -- that if Charlie ever returned he'd admit that he'd made a mistake in trying to force Charlie into rehab.

"I mean it," said Rory. "I won't force you."

Charlie looked at him, a little scared, a little confused, and maybe a little hopeful. "No threats? No dire punishments for not doing what you want?"

Rory shook his head. This was harder than he had imagined. He kept his eyes fixed on the duvet, watching Charlie's hand curl around his own. "I spent a lot of time talking to your mum earlier this year, and reading up on addiction. I don't like it, Charlie. I hate you being on heroin, I fucking hate it, but I know I can't stop you using if you really want to. I want you to give up. I want you to do some sort of rehabilitation programme, but it doesn't have to be an in-patient programme." He gave a rueful half-smile, half-grimace. "Not sure I could let you out of my sight for that long anyway." He twisted Charlie's hand around in his own, playing with the fingers, noting the ingrained dirt under the nails, the remnants of nail polish, the scratches and abrasions that told him Charlie had been in some sort of fight recently, and the healing marks around his wrists that hinted at something darker still. He felt himself tense up again, wanting to seek out anyone who had hurt his Charlie, wanting to hurt them, kill them, rip their bodies apart, destroy them utterly _. I have to get this under control,_ he told himself.

He took a deep breath and wrenched his mind back to what he had been saying. "If you really want to be free of it, I think methadone's as good as anything else if it's done properly. You could stay here, and I'll make sure you get it every day. If you don't ... well, I'll see what we can sort out. It won't be easy. I fucking hate that stuff, hate what it does to people, but I don't hate you. I could never hate you."

Charlie squeezed his hand. "I hate what it does to people, too," he ventured. "I hate what it does to me. I want to be free of it, Rory, I do. I want to stop, but I'm so scared. I can't take the withdrawal -- it hurts so much."

Rory took him in a hug. "You don't have to do withdrawal. I'll get the doctor here today and if she won't prescribe it I'll call another one, or we can go into the clinic in town. But you'll get it, I promise."

Charlie rested his head on Rory's shoulder and Rory could feel wetness -- Charlie was crying. It made him anxious and angry and far too protective for his own good, but he couldn't help it. He would do anything to stop Charlie crying. "I'll keep you safe, Charlie. I won't let anything hurt you. Just stay with me this time. Don't run away." He took a deep breath. "Don't run away again."

"I won't."

He pressed kisses into the damp curls and rocked slightly back and forth, hoping with all his might that he could banish Charlie's demons with sheer willpower, hoping that everything would turn out all right.

~~~~~

Dr McKenzie (an Englishwoman in spite of her name) agreed to make a house call, and arrived a little after eleven o'clock. He thanked her for coming, and explained the situation before taking her up to the bedroom. It wasn't that he didn't trust Charlie -- not precisely -- but it was only prudent to make sure that she was well aware of the potential problems before she encountered her new patient.

He waited in the kitchen while she examined Charlie, pacing up and down the room, biting on his thumbnail. He'd give anything to be up in the bedroom, but Charlie had said that he wanted to talk to the doctor alone, and that meant there were things he was saying that he didn't want Rory to know about -- and he suspected that they were things that would cause Rory to get very, very angry if he ever found out.

Rory was going to find out. It might take a while, but he knew how to manipulate Charlie, and he had no doubt that he'd get the whole story, given time. The only difficulty would be in controlling his temper once he'd heard it, but that was a problem for a later day.

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and smoothly, and then decided that he might as well do some exercise. He started a kata, his mind clearing as he went through the slow, stylised movements, and the tension ebbing from his body. By the time he straightened up at the end he felt much better, though still inclined to murder anyone who had ever laid a finger on Charlie. That was never going to change.

When the doctor came back down the stairs she looked serious but not worried.

"Is he all right?" Rory asked.

"He's exhausted and malnourished, he's suffered several beatings recently, he's a heroin addict and he has a small patch of pneumonia in the right lung. As for other infections ... well, I've taken blood for a basic screen, but he'll need to attend the sexual health clinic for a proper work-up."

Rory felt cold as he heard the list of problems. Not that he hadn't worked most of out anyway, but to hear them all listed, one after the other, made the total sound so much worse. "Do you think he should be in hospital?" he asked, dreading the answer. He didn't want to let Charlie out of his sight, not for one moment.

"No, I don't think so, not at the moment. Not as long as he's got someone to look after him. I presume that will be you?"

Rory nodded.

"I've given him some antibiotics, and the first dose of methadone, based roughly on what he was taking. There's a script for another two days'-worth of methadone on the bedside table, plus another lot of antibiotics. I'll call in on Friday to see how he's going and to check the dosage. I'll try and arrange a referral to a drugs counsellor as well, but that might take some time, unless you want to go private."

"We'll go private," confirmed Rory. "This needs to be sorted out as soon as possible."

She smiled at him. "Good. And I'll get the details of the sexual health clinic for you."

"Thank you. And thank you for making the house call. I know you're busy."

"No problem. And please, if he gets worse, do call me. The number's on the script."

He showed her out and then raced back up the stairs to Charlie. The glass was still there on the bedside table.

They looked at the green liquid for several minutes.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah?"

"You have to take it."

Charlie was silent for a moment, and Rory wondered it he was going to deny it, or refuse, or be angry with Rory for suggesting it.

After a few seconds, though, Charlie relaxed, saying, "Yeah, I know."

Rory dropped a kiss on his ear. "I don't want to force you into it, love. Not like last time. And I don't want you to go to a residential programme. Not unless it's absolutely necessary."

"No, no, don't make me go," said Charlie, reaching forward for Rory.

"No, love, not if I can help it." Rory wrapped himself around Charlie, holding him close and murmuring into his ear. "And I'm not going to use it as a threat. I made that mistake last time and I'm sorry for it. I'll never threaten you again. But I can't stand the thought of you using anymore -- not ever, not even once, and that means going back on the methadone."

Charlie hesitated. "They say it rots your teeth."

Rory had read up on that too. "I think it's more likely lack of dental care that does that."

Charlie thought about that for a minute. "You could be right."

"You remember Dr Allen, my dentist, don't you?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"I'll get you an appointment with him, get your teeth checked out. You can see him as often as you want, if you're worried about the methadone."

Charlie smiled gratefully. "Thanks."

"So, drink it down and have a nap." Rory sat up and reached for the glass.

"Don't leave me."

It was barely more than a whisper, but Rory could see the anxiety in Charlie's face, the expectation that he'd leave. "I promise I won't go anywhere while you're asleep -- I'll be right here in the flat when you wake up." He stroked Charlie's cheek as he said it, hoping the touch would reassure Charlie as much as the words themselves.

It seemed to work. Charlie took the glass and drank the liquid down, grimacing at the taste. "Too sweet."

Rory poured him some water, and he drank it down, eager to take the taste away, before lying down and drawing the covers up over his chest. "Stay with me?"

Rory kissed him. "I'll stay." He walked over to the bookcase and picked out a book at random. "See? I'll just be sitting in this chair reading. And if I'm not here, I'll just be in the loo, or the kitchen. I won't leave."

Charlie reached out a hand. Rory pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, taking Charlie's hand in his. Even so, it was several minutes before Charlie's deep, even breaths told Rory that he had fallen asleep at last.

He picked up the glass that had held the methadone and held it up to the light. Even in the dull winter light, the dregs of the syrup glowed a virulent green, like the juice of emeralds. No, nothing as rich as emerald; more like peridot. He touched a finger into the liquid, seeing how it stuck to his skin, and tasted it. He pulled a face, glad that Charlie couldn't see him. It was horrible -- sickly sweet, with an undertone of bitterness. He looked at Charlie, who was sleeping peacefully, and hoped he'd be able to cope with it for as long as it took to get him through rehabilitation.

He wasn't going to let Charlie fail. Not this time.

He picked up the scripts and his heart sank when he realised that he was going to have to go to the chemist himself. They'd probably want some sort if ID, and at least he could show he lived at the same address. He checked his watch -- it was nearly midday. He wasn't sure when they'd close, it being New Year's Eve, but he'd better be safe than sorry.

He dialled the office and explained what he needed to Chris, then settled down to wait.

Chris turned up a little after two, imperturbable as ever and carrying two bags of groceries.

"Afternoon, boss."

Rory nodded and led him into the kitchen. He started unpacking the bags, putting the milk and eggs in the fridge, and the cans into the cupboard. He opened a can of soup and put it in the microwave to heat up.

"So he's back, is he?" asked Chris.

"Aye, he is."

"Good."

Rory looked at him quizzically, but Chris stood his ground. "You missed him."

Rory shrugged. He might have said as much to Charlie, but he certainly wasn't going to bare his soul to anyone else -- not even Chris.

"I'll go and wake him, then, and explain that you'll be here until I get back."

He headed up the stairs, carrying the soup. Charlie woke easily and smiled up at him.

"Hello, love."

Rory kissed his cheek. "Hello yourself. How are you feeling, now?"

"Not too bad. A lot less twitchy."

"Good. I've brought you some lunch -- chicken soup.'

Charlie smiled. "Smells good." He sat up and Rory placed the tray over his legs.

"Charlie ... " he began.

"What is it?" asked Charlie, looking up from his meal.

"I have to go out for a little while -- I have to get the methadone script filled today, because it's New Year's Day tomorrow and everything will be closed."

"Oh."

"Don't worry -- Chris is downstairs, and I've asked him to stay while I'm out."

"Oh. OK."

"I won't be gone long."

Charlie smiled. "I know you won't."

"Will you be all right?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'll just read or something."

"Good."

It was good. He'd been worried that Charlie might create a fuss at him going out not even two hours after he'd promised not to leave. It irked him that he had to do it, but he wasn't going to take the slightest risk that Charlie would go looking for heroin again. He'd rather go to every chemist in Manchester -- on his hands and knees, even -- than risk Charlie going back on the drugs.

He was in luck, though. When he got to the local shopping village he found the chemist was still open. They knew him there, and the pharmacist accepted his explanation for the scripts. She made a note of his driver's licence number, but had the decency to apologise. "I'm sorry about having to do this, but I'm accountable for the dispensing, and I have to make sure it's going to get to the patient."

"That's all right," Rory acknowledged. "I'll bring him in myself when he's fit to be up."

"Good. Now, there are two doses there, so he gets half tomorrow and half on Friday. Will your doctor be prescribing more?"

"Aye, she will. She's seeing him again on Friday morning."

"Right. Now, with the antibiotics, he shouldn't be taking alcohol. Do you need any cough mixtures?"

"I'd better get some, I suppose."

He eventually escaped with the double dose of methadone, the antibiotics, a bottle of expectorant for when the cough became productive, a bottle of linctus for when it dried up, paracetamol for the fever, a multivitamin supplement and a packet of condoms. She was a very good pharmacist.

Chris was sitting in the living room when he got back, reading another novel.

"Was everything all right?" he asked.

"Aye, didn't hear a peep out of him."

"Thanks," he said, and he meant it. If Chris hadn't been able to stay, he'd have worried the whole time he was out and would probably have forgotten something important.

"No problem." Chris got up to go. "Are you going to be in on Friday, then?"

Rory paused. He hadn't thought about it, but actually, there would be a lot to do on Friday -- they had to arrange his clinic appointments, for a start, and then book another visit from the doctor, and organise some more methadone. And all that was assuming that Charlie stayed well and that his pneumonia responded to the antibiotics.

He shook his head. "I doubt it. I might call in after lunch, but that would be it."

"There's no real need -- everything's running smoothly. I can always phone or email if there's something that needs to be done."

"Fine. I might leave everything until Monday. I really don't think I'll be able to leave him on his own yet anyway."

"Is he all right?"

"He's ... he's OK, I think. Just exhausted, I hope. The doctor thinks he'll be all right."

"That's good. He's not a bad kid, you know."

Rory noted the warning tone, and nodded. "I know. And don't worry, I'm not going to hurt him."

"Never said you would."

"Well, don't even think it."

"I won't, boss."

Rory forced himself to calm down -- there was no sense in getting angry at Chris anyway, it just rolled off him -- and took out his wallet. He re-imbursed Chris for the groceries, wished him a Happy New Year, and saw him out.

Once the door had closed, he rested his forehead against the cool wood. He was exhausted himself, with all the running around and worry, and he could use a nap himself. But there was Charlie's dinner to get ready, and then he'd have to make sure that he took his next dose of antibiotics, and he ought to ring Meg again ... but first he was going to have a glass of whisky.

  
 **2.3 -- Starting to Talk**

_Thursday 1st January 2004_

The New Year dawned quietly for both of them. Rory woke a little after eight, and immediately turned to check that Charlie was still there beside him. He was, and Rory let go of the tension he hadn't realised he'd held. Charlie was still there; he hadn't disappeared in the night, as Rory was afraid he would. He hadn't run away again. He'd stayed, he'd taken his methadone and he'd stayed, and Rory came as close to praying as he'd done in the last ten years when he hoped that Charlie would never leave him again.

He lay there, just looking at Charlie, for nearly an hour, until he was forced to get up and go to the bathroom. Charlie was awake when he got back into bed, and they shared some long, slow, languorous kisses before Rory decided that breakfast was a real priority.

"Eggs and bacon for breakfast?" he asked, pulling himself away with some reluctance.

"Sounds good to me." Charlie lay back on the pillow and followed Rory with his eyes.

"I'll be back in twenty minutes."

He was, with eggs and bacon and toast and marmalade and two large mugs of tea. There was also the dose of methadone for Charlie, which Rory watched him swallow. As soon as Charlie had eaten, Rory chivvied him into the shower and took the opportunity to change the sheets and lay out a fresh set of his own pyjamas for Charlie to wear. He thought back to the day he had thrown all Charlie's clothes into the rubbish and cursed himself for a fool. He should never have thrown them out, he should have realised that Charlie would come back one day, he should have kept them ready. But he hadn't known, and he'd lost his temper, and everything was gone now, everything that Charlie had left behind.

He sighed. They would just have to buy everything new, and then he would make sure that Charlie never left again ... but that could wait a few more days. For now there was laundry to do and lunch to think about and Charlie to cosset.

That afternoon, following a short argument, he allowed Charlie to get up for a couple of hours, and they sat in the living room, snuggling up on the couch under a duvet and watching a DVD -- at least, Rory watched it; Charlie dozed off halfway through and lay with his head pillowed on Rory's thigh. Rory ran his fingers through the soft curls and tried not to let his thoughts linger on what Charlie had been through in the three months since he'd dropped out of sight. He knew it was bad -- he only had to look at the shadows in Charlie's eyes to see that, let alone the marks on his wrists -- but so far Charlie hadn't volunteered any details, and Rory didn't want to push him too far. He didn't want to run the slightest risk that Charlie would disappear again, and that meant keeping a tight hold on his temper and letting Charlie tell his story in his own time.

He grabbed the remote control and switched off the TV, then sat and listened to the sounds of the traffic, and the occasional footsteps along the corridors. Charlie slept like the dead, his breathing even and deep, and Rory leaned back against the couch and let himself drift off.

He woke when Charlie did, a little after five, and set about closing the curtains and turning up the heating again -- his energy bill was going to be enormous, but he didn't begrudge it if it kept Charlie safe and well.

He chivvied Charlie back into bed, made them some dinner, and then waited until Charlie fell asleep again before tidying up. It wasn't until he was getting into bed himself that he realised that they still hadn't talked about what Charlie had been doing in the year he'd been away. Well, he didn't want to push Charlie too hard, not while he was still unwell, not while everything was so raw and painful. Rory suspected that a lot of it would make him angry and upset, and wasn't looking forward to hearing it, even as he longed to know exactly what had happened. There would be time enough once Charlie was better, once things had settled down a little. Until then, he would simply be happy that Charlie was back with him, where he belonged.

~~~~~

_Friday 2nd January 2004_

Dr McKenzie visited Charlie again on Friday morning. She was happy with his progress but cautioned Rory against taking him outside. She wrote up another script for methadone and promised to visit again on the Monday.

"What about the blood tests?" asked Rory.

"The basic bloods just confirm that he has a bacterial infection -- that would be the pneumonia. The HIV and other tests won't be back until next week, I'm afraid. And you still need to take him to the clinic to get swabs done."

Rory nodded. He had hoped for some good news today, but he would just have to be more patient.

"I've increased the methadone dose -- from the sound of it, he's a fast metaboliser, so his dose is going to need a fair bit of adjustment until we find the right level for him."

"Did he tell you that they wouldn't increase it last year?"

"He did." She made a slight face. "Some doctors are a little scared about opiate dosage, particularly the high levels some people require. Once the holiday period is over it might be worth while getting his cytochrome P450 profile done, just to confirm it, but I'm fairly sure on clinical history that he's a fast metaboliser and he's going to need a high dose of methadone to stabilise him and control the cravings."

"Is that dangerous?"

"Not if it's properly supervised. It's far more dangerous to try and maintain him on too low a dose, as he told me was the case last year. All that does is send him back to the dealers."

"Aye, I know." He couldn't disguise the bitterness in his voice at the way Charlie's treatment had been botched.

She gave a small, reassuring smile. "That won't be happening this year, Mr McManus. If you could ask him to talk to his old GP about getting his notes transferred across, I'd be happy to add him to my list. That will make it a lot easier for me to supervise his treatment."

"Thank you, that's very generous. I'll get onto it first thing Monday."

He closed the door behind her and almost ran up the stairs to see how Charlie was. It certainly eased his own mind to know that she was going to be in charge of Charlie's treatment from now on, instead of the idiot who had fucked things up so badly a year ago.

Charlie was looking a lot more alert this morning, and after a hot shower Rory let him come downstairs, bundled up in tracksuit bottoms and a thick woollen jumper and wrapped in a duvet. They sat side by side on the settee, snuggled up together, watching their favourite DVDs and eating chocolate Hobnobs.

"Thank you," said Charlie, suddenly.

Rory looked at him, puzzled. "What for?"

"For taking me back. For looking after me."

"I'll always look after you, numptie."

"I know, but ... I didn't know, back then. I thought ... the drugs really stuffed my head around, you know? I thought you didn't love me any more, I thought you hated me." Tears glittered in his eyes. "Christ, Rory, you're the only thing in my life that's ever gone right, and even then I managed to stuff it up. I couldn't bear it if I lost you again."

Rory shook his head. "You never lost me, Charlie. You walked away."

Charlie nodded, miserably, and the tears spilled over. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Rory hugged him. "You're forgiven. But you'll never do that again, d'ye hear me? You'll not walk away from me again, not if I have to follow you to the ends of the earth. You're mine. You've always been mine, since the day I first saw you, and you'll be mine till you die." His voice was fierce, but he hoped that Charlie could hear the love and concern in it.

"I won't leave you again. I promise."

"I know you won't." Rory kissed him, gently, to seal the promise, and wiped Charlie's tears away with his thumbs. "And I'm never going to leave you, you know that, don't you?"

Charlie nodded, then sniffed and tried to smile. It was heartbreaking, but Rory smiled back at him, hoping that the two of them were going to make it this time. In an attempt to change the subject, he said, "We're going to have to go shopping next week, get you some new clothes. Do you have stuff in London you want collected? Where's your guitar, your clothes, all your stuff?"

Charlie looked uncomfortable and bit his lip. "It's all gone." He kept his gaze on his hands, twisting and fidgeting with the hem of his jumper. "I sold the guitar ages ago," he confessed. "Ran out of money, needed stuff. So I sold it to one of my dealers."

Rory's attention was diverted from the guitar. "One of your dealers?" he repeated. "How many did you have?" He tried to make his tone light and unthreatening, but he could see Charlie stiffen up.

"I needed stuff."

"I'm not judging you, Charlie," he said, quickly. "I just want to know how many people need to be paid off. I want you to be safe, and if that means I have to pay off every dealer in London and Manchester, I'll do it. But I have to know, Charlie. I need to know."

Charlie kept his head down, refusing to meet Rory's eyes. "I owe a few thousand on credit cards. They're both maxed out -- probably cancelled by now. The only dealer I really have to pay off is Black Pedro -- he's the only one who let me have anything on credit, 'cos he was a DriveShaft fan. I gave him a couple of my rings in payment and he came back and told me they were worthless. Bastard."

"Are you sure he's the only one?"

Charlie hesitated. "There's a guy called Beaky says I owe him, but I don't. He's the one I sold the guitar to. Useless little prick. His stuff was awful too."

Rory nodded, more to encourage Charlie than anything else. "Anyone else?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean, not exactly?"

"There was this girl, see. I thought I could get some money out of her. Her Dad was rolling in it, and I ... well, I ..." his voice faltered.

Rory reached for his hand. "You can tell me anything, you know," he said gently. "I promise I won't be angry."

Charlie swung his knees over Rory's and tucked his head into the hollow of Rory's neck. "I was living in a squat, with some other junkies. I had fuck-all left, nothing to sell, so I ... I stole stuff," he whispered. When Rory didn't react, he went on, "I nicked some stuff from her Dad's home -- silver lighter, photo frames, a few knick-knacks."

Rory didn't dare say anything. He was angry, yes, he was angry, but not just with Charlie. He was angry with himself, for not making more of an effort to find Charlie. He felt that he had let Charlie down by not finding him before he'd reached these depths.

"Did they find out?"

"Yeah.. well, her Dad... he offered me a job. So I started work -- selling photocopiers, can you imagine it? -- but I was totally shite at it, and then I..." he swallowed, remembering that day, "well, the fucking dealer stuffed me around, gave me really bad shit, and I collapsed, and they took me to hospital. They found some of the stuff I'd nicked in my pockets." His voice was very small and he was trying to curl up into a little ball and disappear. Rory wrapped his arms around him and held him close.

"Charlie, love, are you in trouble with the police?"

Charlie shook his head. "Not over that, anyway. He didn't press charges. I don't even think he called the police. He just told me he was disappointed in me and to keep away from her."

"When was that?"

"During the summer. Why?"

"You disappeared, after the rehab course. We were worried about you."

Charlie snorted. "Yeah, well, the course was crap. I only did it because the solicitor told me to. Said it would help with the trial."

"Well you got off with a fine and a bond, so he was right."

"I guess. It was fucking awful though. First thing I did when I walked out was find a dealer." He stilled for a moment, and Rory suspected that he was remembering the dark times, the weeks when he had been missing, just before he had turned up so unexpectedly on Rory's doorstep.

Rory stroked his back and asked, "Is there anyone else? Any other debts?"

Charlie shook his head, but kept his head down.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Rory lifted Charlie's chin and looked at him suspiciously. "Do you owe anyone else?" he asked again.

"No."

"What is it you're not telling me?"

"Nothing."

It was a blatant lie, of course, and Rory suspected that it had something to do with the marks around his wrists, but he couldn't face the thought of arguing with him, not when they were only just getting used to each other again, so he let it pass for the moment. Charlie snuggled back into his shoulder, and they sat for a while in silence, just being together, knowing that they had found each other again.

Sitting quietly led to dozing quietly, and it must have been a full hour later that Rory woke up, startled, as Charlie jerked and cried out.

"No! No! Please, Tuomi, no!"

Rory shook him, hard, but Charlie's eyes showed no awareness.

"Charlie? It's all right, it's only a nightmare."

Charlie gasped and nodded, but it still took several seconds before he was able to bring himself under control. "S-sorry about that," he muttered.

Rory put both arms around him. "It's all right," he repeated. "You're safe with me, remember."

Charlie nodded, "I know. Sorry."

"What was it about?"

Charlie put his head back on Rory's shoulder and burrowed in close. "Don't really want to talk about it," he said, sounding a little petulant.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." He let his hands run soothingly over Charlie's shoulders. " But I'd ... I'd like to know. Not because I want to hear about the bad things, but I want to know everything that's happened to you. So I can understand, if you have more nightmares or if I say something wrong."

Charlie nodded against his shoulder, but didn't say anything. "I can't talk about it now. Please don't make me talk about it."

Rory felt seriously alarmed. When he thought of what could have happened, especially if Charlie had been really doped up ... he shivered, and tightened his hold and dropped a kiss into Charlie's hair. "It's all right, you're safe now," he murmured.

They cuddled for a while longer, and then Rory left him dozing over a book while he cleaned up and started preparing some vegetables for dinner. He knew it was ridiculous to be feeling happy while doing silly domestic tasks, but it was what they signified that was important -- the knowledge that there would be someone to share his meal with; someone who was worth the effort of preparing a meal instead of dialling out or opening another can of soup; someone to love and look after and keep safe. It made every little chore worthwhile.

Preparations completed, he made some more tea before returning to the living room, where Charlie was now fast asleep, the book lying haphazardly on the carpet. He picked it up and set it down gently on the coffee table, ready for when Charlie woke up.

Rory wasn't a religious man, by any means. He'd been brought up in the Kirk, the dour Presbyterian tradition, taken there by his grandmother every Sunday, like it or not (and mostly he didn't). Hellfire and brimstone, prayer and penitence -- the stern message of the Kirk had been no match for teenage hormones and a life on the shady side of the law, and he'd left it all behind a long time ago.

But as he looked down at the thin, pale man sleeping on the sofa, all curled up and one hand beneath his cheek, he couldn't help murmuring a prayer of thanksgiving to whatever benign forces in the universe brought Charlie to his door three nights ago. He didn't want to think of what might have happened to him over the winter, with no home, no money, and no flesh on his bones. He'd probably have died: just another statistic in the police annals; just another anonymous tragedy. It sent chills down Rory's spine to think how close he had come to losing Charlie forever.

He wouldn't let that happen again. He'd support Charlie however he could, and if that meant paying off drug dealers and fences, then he'd do it, disgusting as it was. If it meant rearranging his life so he could take Charlie to his methadone programme every day, he'd do that too. And if -- he crossed his fingers -- if by some ill-chance the tests came back positive, he'd make sure that Charlie got the medications to keep AIDS at bay. What he wouldn't do -- what he _couldn't_ do -- was to allow Charlie to go back to the drugs and the street. He'd do anything, anything at all to stop that -- though how he'd manage if Charlie set his mind to it, he had no idea.

His fists clenched, unconsciously, as he remembered the argument they had a year ago, when Charlie had run off and left him rather than go into the rehabilitation programme Rory had organised. That had hurt him deeply, and it had taken many hours of talking with Meg before he realised that it had to be Charlie's decision, and Charlie hadn't been ready to make it.

 _But he's made it now,_ he told himself _. He came back to me and asked for help, and I won't let him down. I won't. I'll keep him safe. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, I'll keep him safe._

As if he could hear Rory's thoughts, Charlie stirred, and opened his eyes. "Hello," he murmured as he reached up to take Rory's hand. "Watching over my dreams?"

"Always," replied Rory, as he knelt down and gave Charlie a gentle kiss. "I'll always watch over you."

"That's good." He sat up and pulled Rory down onto the sofa with him. "Mmm, you're warm. I think I'll just snuggle up to you for the rest of the day." He wriggled closer, insinuating his hands beneath Rory's thick woollen jumper, then swinging his legs around so that he was almost sitting in Rory's lap.

Rory wrapped his arms around the thin shoulders -- _I have to feed him more_ , he told himself -- and pulled Charlie in close. They were both a bit too clingy, at the moment, hardly bearing to be apart for more than a few minutes. He knew it wouldn't last, but just now the closeness was what he needed, what they both needed, and he rested his head against Charlie's, breathing in the scent of warm wool, and shampoo, and that faint, unmistakable smell that was simply Charlie.

"Love you," whispered Charlie.

"Love you, too," he whispered back.

  
 **2.4 Mother Love**

_Sunday 4th January 2004, 7:30 pm_

Rory looked at the phone. He'd been ringing Meg's number each day, but there hadn't been an answer yet. He was starting to get concerned -- Meg usually told him when she was going to be away for any length of time, just in case Charlie turned up, but this time she'd obviously forgotten. Of course, this would be the one time that Charlie really had turned up, and he hadn't been able to tell her the good news.

Rory tried the number again.

"Pace family, Meg speaking."

"Meg! Great. It's Rory -"

"Oh, lovely, dear. Happy New Year! How are you?"

"Fine." He wondered if he had the courage to pretend that nothing had changed, but he knew he owed it to Charlie to tell her. "I have some news for you, Meg -- Charlie's here."

He heard Meg's shocked gasp. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"How is he? Is he all right? Is he hurt?" The words tumbled out and Rory could hear her rapid breathing.

"Slow down, Meg, he's OK. He's very thin, and he's exhausted, and the doctor said he had a touch of pneumonia, but apart from that I think he's OK. I had the doctor come over and look at him, and she's happy for Charlie to stay here, as long as he's kept warm and rested."

"Is he still -- " she broke off, choking on a sob.

"Still on heroin?" Rory tried to stop himself from growling the word, but didn't quite succeed. "Yes, he was, but I got the doctor to prescribe him some methadone. She's seeing him every couple of days at the moment, and she says he's making progress."

"Oh, you're a good boy, Rory."

Rory smiled, though he knew Meg couldn't see it. "I'm just glad to have him back."

Meg was audibly weeping now, and Rory felt tears prickling in his own eyes. He brushed them away and asked, calmly, "Do you want to come over now, or in the morning?"

"I'll come over now -- I'm on early shift tomorrow."

"I'll put the kettle on, then."

Meg rang the doorbell twenty minutes later. Rory held the door open for her and gave her a big hug.

"He's really here?" she asked, as if she couldn't quite believe it.

"He's really here. He turned up on Tuesday night, rang the buzzer, and collapsed outside on the path. I had to carry him up." He saw the look of alarm in her face and hurried on. "It's was just shock and exhaustion. The doctor says he's got a bit of pneumonia, but it's getting better, and he doesn't seem to be ill apart from that."

Meg bit her lip. "So, I'd better go up and see him."

"Come upstairs. He's probably asleep, but you can stay as long as you want."

"That's kind of you, love. I just need to see him with my own eyes."

"I understand."

Charlie was still asleep when they got up to the bedroom. As Meg approached the bed quietly, with some hesitation, Rory was torn between waking Charlie so he could say hello to his mother, and shooing her away again so that Charlie could sleep undisturbed. He'd do it if he had to. He'd take Charlie's side against anyone, up to and including his own mother, if he had to.

Meg reached out a hand and Rory had to restrain himself from stopping her. Fuck! Why was he so anxious about this? He hadn't been so bad when the doctor have been here, putting her hands all over Charlie, so why did he object to his own mother touching him? She had every right to touch him. She had every right to pick him up and take him home with her ...

_No!_

The violent reaction in his own mind shocked him. He did _not_ want Meg to take Charlie away with her. More than that -- he wouldn't let her. He couldn't let her. He needed Charlie just as much as Charlie needed him, and if Meg took him away there was no telling what might happen.

He made the effort to unclench his fists. Now that he'd identified the threat—and she _was_ a threat, he made no mistake about that—he could examine the situation, make plans, and take action. He wasn't going to let Charlie go. Meg had missed her chance on Tuesday night when Charlie had gone to his parents' house and found no one at home. Rory had been home; Rory had been there when Charlie needed him, and now Rory was going to keep him here in the flat, safe and warm, in Rory's bed, where he belonged.

He smiled grimly to himself. He'd been told before—mainly by Charlie—that he had a possessive streak a mile wide. Well, Rory was going to show them all just how possessive he could be. Charlie needed to get better, and he needed rest, and warmth and someone to take him to the chemist every day for methadone; someone who wouldn't let Charlie play games or make excuses or dodge his responsibilities. Meg and Michael wouldn't be able to cope. Meg would try to be firm, but Charlie could talk her round too easily, and she'd hardly want an addict around the house, not while she had Kevin and his friends to think of. Michael, on the other hand, would be too firm, too antagonistic, and that would just send Charlie running again. Rory couldn't risk that.

No, this was the best place for him to be. Charlie would stay here, where Rory could keep an eye on him, could keep him safe, and he'd be all right.

"He looks so thin," whispered Meg.

"He hadn't been eating well," Rory whispered back, "but he's eating now. I'm making sure of that."

"What did the doctor say?"

"That he's very lucky not to be seriously ill. She checked him over thoroughly, but apart from the heroin and the pneumonia and the general neglect he's OK. We won't get the blood test results back until next week though."

They looked at each other, both sharing the fear that Charlie might inadvertently have injected more than just heroin during his months on the run.

"So it'll be March before we know for sure," she murmured, and Rory nodded. "I'll ask Father Maurice to pray for him," she added, and Rory looked surprised, but realised that to her it meant a great deal. It probably did to Charlie as well.

"Thank you," he said, sincerely, and smiled at her.

"I'll pray for you too," she added, but Rory shook his head.

"Don't waste your breath, Meg. I'm past redemption."

"No one's past redemption, dear," she smiled, and patted his cheek.

"Maybe not," he conceded, "but I think it would take more than a few prayers to bring me back into the Kirk."

Their voices had become louder gradually, and how Charlie stirred and opened his eyes. He saw his mother and sat up immediately. "Mum?" he whispered, as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

Meg flung herself forward and hugged him for dear life, words spilling out of her. "Oh, Charlie, love, you're all right," she cried, tears flowing down her cheeks. "I was worried sick! Don't you ever run away like that again!"

Charlie bore the onslaught with surprising strength, thought Rory. When his eyes met Charlie's, over Meg's shoulder, he gestured to the door, silently asking Charlie if he wanted to be left alone with his mother. At Charlie's nod, he left and went back downstairs. He'd give them fifteen minutes or so, he reasoned, and then he'd take up a pot of tea ... unless he heard them arguing, in which case he'd be upstairs at the double. Nothing was allowed to upset Charlie, not even Meg.

As it was, Meg must have been more upset than he had realised. By the time he got upstairs again with the tea tray, Charlie welcomed him with imploring eyes.

"I've brought you some tea," he said, placing the tray down on the bedside table.

"Oh, you're a good boy, Rory," said Meg. "Just what I needed." She dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue, somewhat embarrassed. "Sorry about all this."

"Don't worry yourself," Rory reassured her. "It's only natural." He handed her a mug and watched as she took the first sip.

He handed another mug to Charlie—coffee, with extra sugar that earned him an amused smile as Charlie sipped it. Rory looked back, unrepentant. Charlie had lost at least 10 kilograms and he hadn't been fat to start with.

"Well, this is cosy, " joked Charlie.

Rory frowned. It wasn't a good idea to make fun of Meg's reaction—but Meg laughed and nodded.

"I remember when you were little you used to love having your meals in bed. You had that tray with kittens on it, remember? I sometimes thought you got sick on purpose just so you could sit in bed and eat from the tray."

Rory guffawed at that while Charlie flushed. "Mum! That's embarrassing!"

"Well, it's the truth."

Rory looked at Charlie. "Kittens?" he asked, trying very hard not to tease.

"I was eight!"

"I bet you were a sweet little boy then—all curls and dimples."

Meg smiled fondly. "He was, too. He looked like a little angel when he made his first communion."

Charlie was trying to wriggle down under the duvet, acutely uncomfortable. "Did not."

"Oh, you did. Of course, that was before you chased Liam around the garden and fell in the mud."

"I got a right walloping for that."

"Well, I told you not to get yourself dirty. That suit was expensive."

"Sorry. I know things were tough then."

"Ah well, it was a long time ago."

She finished her tea and stood up. "I'd better get back. I'm on shift at six tomorrow morning and I haven't even unpacked yet." She gave Charlie another hug and kissed his cheek, then stood up. She was reluctant to go, even so, but she let Rory escort her down the stairs.

To his surprise, she hugged him, too, and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for looking after him. I can't bear to think what might have happened if you hadn't been here ..." she couldn't go on, and dissolved into tears again. "Why did I have to be away—the one week Mike made me go away, and he came back and I wasn't here! I should never have gone!"

"Dinnae fash yourself," he chided, rubbing her back soothingly. "You weren't to know. Mike wasn't to know. No one had any idea he was going to come back. He didn't even stop to phone, so how could any of us have known?"

"You're right," she sniffled, blowing her nose on another tissue. "But I'm his mother, and I should have been here."

 _Yes, you should have been_ , he agreed silently. _But you weren't, and I was, and now he's mine forever._

~~~~~

Charlie was sitting up in bed when Rory came back up the stairs, staring into his coffee.

Rory sat down where Meg had been, and took his own drink from the table. "OK?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. Wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. But worse, too."

"It's like that, with families."

"She just kept crying. I felt so bad for making her cry. It was worse than after the trial."

"She was worried, we all were."

"Yeah, I guess." He fidgeted with his empty mug, until Rory took it away.

"What do you want for supper then?"

Charlie looked at the clock—nearly ten o'clock already—and shrugged. "Don't know. Not really hungry."

"Just a sandwich then? Or a boiled egg?"

"No, not just now."

"Not even a little one? I could cut your toast into soldiers."

Charlie flushed. "I'm not a kid."

"Sorry. Just trying anything to get you to eat more."

"I know." His smile became a lot more sly and calculating. "You're just not offering the right bribe."

"Oh? And what would the right bribe be, in your opinion?"

"Well, a good hard shag would be a pretty good incentive."

Rory froze, and Charlie faltered. "That is, if you ... well, if you wanted to." He looked down. "Doesn't matter. Was a stupid idea."

He started to roll over, but Rory reached out and held him fast. He turned Charlie's chin until he could look into his eyes -- grey today, and sad. "I want to, "he said.

"Then why haven't you touched me? Four days I've been here and you haven't so much as tried to wank me!"

"I didn't know if you wanted it."

"Why else would I come here?"

"You were ill when you turned up here, you had nowhere else to go."

"But I told you I still love you."

"I love you, too. But I don't know what you've been through this last year." Rory felt frustrated and miserable -- at the not knowing, and at resenting the not-knowing so much. "You've hinted at things, and I didn't want you to think I only wanted you for sex so I tried not to ... well, not to take things too far. I thought I'd wait for you to make the first move. Only you didn't."

"Was waiting for you. You've always taken charge before."

"I know. I remember you shouting that at me, just before you left."

"Oh." Charlie bit his lip, remembering their last—and very bitter—argument just before he'd left.

"I think we have a lot of talking to do," Rory sighed.

Charlie leaned forward and put his arms around Rory, kissing his cheek and neck. "We do. But talking comes later. Right now, I want a shag. Make it a good one and I'll eat two boiled eggs."

Rory kissed him and grinned. "Now there's a challenge." He kissed Charlie again, feeling the familiar warmth coiling within him. "Love you, Charlie. Love you, want you, always."

"Love you too. I'll love you even better when you don't have so many clothes on."

They laughed, and Rory wasted no time in stripping off his slacks and shirt, while Charlie looked on, his eyes wide and appreciative. "God, you look fantastic," he breathed, as Rory's torso was revealed.

"Hah," grunted Rory. "I'm fat and flabby."

"Doesn't look like it."

He shrugged. "I've been exercising again. Got back into karate, a bit of running. Still carrying a few kilos, but I'll lose them come the summer."

"You still look fantastic. Real. Here."

"Oh, I'm here all right." He knelt on the bed and ran his hands under Charlie's pyjama jacket, slipping the buttons undone and pushing the jacket back off his shoulders and down his arms. He tossed it aside and lay down so that they were chest-to-chest, and he was in his favourite position -- looking down into Charlie's eyes. He felt Charlie's arms go around him and smiled a little, pushing down with his hips and noting the hitch of Charlie's breath. "How do you want it?" he breathed as he nibbled on Charlie's ear.

"Like this. I want to see you."

"You know you hardly ever come like that."

"Don't care. I have to see you -- I want to see you inside me, feel you and see you at the same time."

Rory nodded, and kissed him again, and then again. Long minutes were spent in lazy kisses and caresses, as they re-learned each other's body. Rory dragged himself away only long enough to grab the lube from the bedside drawer -- he suspected it was out of date, but he wasn't going to take the time to check it now -- and to prepare Charlie, pushing his fingers in, stretching and sliding and making sure that Charlie was ready for him. He wanted to see Charlie too, wanted to watch him as he surrendered to lust, as he pushed inside. God, it felt good. It felt like coming home as he buried his whole length inside Charlie. He felt Charlie's hips move, allowing him in even further, and he gasped. Charlie was looking at him anxiously, biting his lip, and he lifted a hand to smooth away the frown.

"I'm here, love. I'm deep inside you. God, you feel so good."

"So do you."

He kissed Charlie, feeling himself slide out a little as he did so, but kissing Charlie was just as important as fucking him, especially when Charlie's mouth was opening to him and their tongues were sliding around each other. And really, Charlie was right -- this wasn't about having the best climax ever, it was about being and belonging; it was about claiming each other again, becoming a couple again. For Rory, being able to look into those beautiful eyes was the most important thing in the world.

He wasn't in any hurry, either. He'd be quite happy to spend the rest of the night slowly easing in and out of his lover, but he was mindful of the fact that Charlie needed to eat, too, and so he gradually speeded up his thrusts, pausing to give Charlie's cock a few pulls now and again, until they were both panting and Charlie was clutching onto his buttocks, trying to pull him in even deeper. With a gruff cry, Rory came, and it was the best climax he had ever had, simply because of all the months when he thought he'd never touch Charlie again.

He took a few seconds to catch his breath, and then took hold of Charlie's cock and made sure that his lover came to a very satisfying climax around him. That in itself was enough to make him shudder and wriggle, and Charlie laughed, then whispered, "Thank you."

Rory raised an eyebrow. "What for?"

Charlie shrugged. "For this. For being here. For not throwing me out on my arse."

Rory settled onto his elbows, his arms framing Charlie's face and their noses a scant inch apart. "You're mine, Charlie. My lover, my other half, my everything. I couldn't throw you out anymore than I could cut off my own arm. You belong here, with me."

"Yours," breathed Charlie, and smiled, as if a weight had been lifted from his mind.

"Mine," repeated Rory, kissing him.

Charlie gave another wriggle, only this time he looked a little uncomfortable, and Rory thought that he'd better pull out. He couldn't bear to be out of contact, though, and merely slid around Charlie's side, keeping as much skin-to-skin contact as he could. Charlie's arms were still around him, and he nuzzled into the warm, slightly sweaty skin under his cheek. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of his lover. This was what he'd craved, all those long, lonely months ... not just the sex, good as it had been, but the sheer bliss of being with the man he loved. He understood, now, why Charlie had always been such a cuddler, even though he'd always teased him about it. Cuddling was the way to say "I love you", not just "I want you".

Charlie's stomach rumbled, and Rory resigned himself to the fact that he had to get up and make supper. He was reluctant to leave, though, and only managed to drag himself away after a few more sensuous kisses, trying pulling Charlie's arms away.

"Come on, Charlie. I'll be back in ten minutes."

"That's ten minutes without you," Charlie complained, his arms still wrapped tightly around Rory's back.

"Don't be such a numptie. I'm only going downstairs to make you some supper. You promised me you'd eat two boiled eggs."

"I did?"

"You did. Now lie down and stay warm till I get back."

He pulled on his dressing gown and hurried down to the kitchen, where he put two eggs on to boil and started the toast. He leaned up against the counter, smiling to himself at the memory of their lovemaking. He rather liked the idea of using shagging as a way to bribe Charlie into getting better. He'd have to remember to get some new lube tomorrow, and maybe something they could play with, like chocolate body paint. He could do that after they'd been to the chemist.

_Oh, shit._

Chemist.

Condoms.

He hadn't used a condom.

He leaned on the counter, shaking his head as the crushing realisation broke over him. He hadn't used any protection, in spite of the fact that Charlie had admitted to shagging anything in sight in the year he'd been away. Useless to think that Charlie had protected himself every time ... and protection would have been little help, anyway, as long as Charlie was injecting. That was why the doctor had taken the blood tests, after all.

He should have remembered. He'd bought a new packet on Wednesday, for heaven's sake! How the fuck had he forgotten?

He dropped his head on his hands, and groaned. He'd forgotten because all rational thought had gone from his head the minute he'd kissed Charlie. And they hadn't used condoms for years before Charlie had left -- he'd just got out of the habit of thinking about them. All he'd thought about was getting inside Charlie as fast as possible, being inside his lover again, feeling that heat around him. It had been wonderful, and he didn't regret it, but he wished he'd taken a moment to think more clearly -- now he was going to have to get himself tested as well.

He grimaced. He hated needles, he didn't want to have his blood tested at all. Still, he thought, that might make Charlie feel a little better about it. He'd have his own test done this week, and then in March they'd get tested together. And he would refuse -- _refuse_ \-- to worry about it until and unless he knew that there was something definite to worry about.

He would just have to keep his fingers crossed.

  
 **2.5 -- A Family Reunion**

_Monday 5th January 2004 8am_

For the first time in over a year, Rory woke with the comfortable lassitude that followed a thorough shagging. He smiled to himself, remembering the evening that had stretched long into the night. Once Charlie had got over the idea that Rory didn't want him any more he'd been almost savage in his demands for attention, and Rory had been eager to comply. They'd each climaxed twice more before finally falling into an exhausted sleep, and now Rory was both knackered and hard again ... and sore in unexpected places.

A little soreness wasn't going to stop him having sex though. He debated reaching down for Charlie's cock and waking his lover in the best way, but a glance at the clock showed that it was already 8 am, and he had a lot to do before the doctor called again.

He sighed. He was going to have to go into the office, even if it was just for a couple of hours after lunch. Chris had emailed him what he could, but there were some things that just had to be handled in person. And really, Charlie was a lot better now, he couldn't use him as an excuse any longer ... he just didn't want to go. It had been blissful being at home all day with Charlie, holding him close, knowing that he was right there beside him, within an arm's reach. He wouldn't have that assurance once he was back in the office, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He would just have to trust Charlie. That also bothered him.

He sighed, eased himself out of the bed and padded downstairs to put the kettle on.

Dr McKenzie was very encouraging when she visited, shortly before lunch. She hadn't yet got the HIV results that they were waiting for, but she was pleased with Charlie's progress. She questioned him closely and increased the dose of methadone when he admitted that he was waking up with early withdrawal symptoms.

"You must tell me when this happens," she insisted. "The whole point of methadone is to remove all the opiate cravings. If you're not getting enough, you'll be tempted to seek out heroin."

"But what happens if I get to the maximum dose and I'm still getting cravings?"

"There's no such thing as a maximum dose."

"But Dr Pascoe said -"

"Whatever my colleague may have believed, there is no maximum dose for methadone -- or for morphine, for that matter. You get what you need, no more and no less; the actual amount is immaterial."

Charlie seemed a bit taken aback by that. "Really?"

"Really. There is a huge variation in the way that people metabolise opiate drugs, and it's not unknown for fast metabolisers, like you, to require doses of methadone that are large enough to be alarming to inexperienced doctors. As long as you are honest with me about withdrawal or overdose symptoms, we will be able to keep your cravings under control quite safely."

Rory could almost see the thoughts going through his lover's head -- and could see with his eyes the subtle but unmistakable relaxation that signalled Charlie's trust and acceptance of Dr McKenzie's words.

"Now," she continued, starting to pack up her equipment, "Mr McManus tells me that you are going to get yourself transferred over to my practice, so I'm going to give you a referral to a psychologist. She's very good -- I refer many of my patients to her. I'll be keeping a close eye on you myself, of course, but I think that you would benefit from seeing her and trying to work out what might be contributing to your problems with addiction."

"Thank you," Charlie said politely.

Rory hoped that the psychologist was better than the counsellor Charlie had been seeing before he left. He hadn't liked the man himself, and he certainly hadn't liked the way he'd antagonised Charlie, but if it would help Charlie to get over his heroin addiction and reduce the chance of a relapse, then Rory would make sure that he attended every appointment.

"And you should get an appointment at the sexual health clinic to have swabs taken," she added.

"Won't the antibiotics interfere with that?"

"No, just take your medications with you so that they can make allowances for them."

"OK."

Rory plucked up the courage to ask Dr McKenzie for a blood test as they walked down the stairs. To his immense relief, she opened her bag and wrote out the request slip for him without question.

"If you have the blood taken today I should get the result by Friday. Ring and make an appointment to see me that afternoon, and bring Mr Pace with you, he should be fit to leave the house by then. I'll have that referral written out for him."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. I've increased the methadone dose, as you heard -- I do expect that it will need to be increased on a regular basis until his enzymes are saturated, so I want to see him at least once a week until he's stabilised. If you think that he's going into withdrawal between visits, give me a ring and I'll update the script for you."

"Thank you," he repeated, and saw her out with a sigh of relief. He was grateful to her, of course, but it didn't make him any fonder of doctors in general.

He busied himself making lunch for them both and ensuring that Charlie ate every morsel. He cleaned up the kitchen and put the dishes in the washer, and then changed the sheets while Charlie had a shower. Eventually, though, he couldn't put it off any longer, and after seeing that Charlie was dressed in warm clothes and settled comfortably on the settee, he set out for the office.

Chris had kept the routine business going admirably, but there were some items that required Rory's personal attention. He dealt with what he could, noted two defaulting loans clients who were going to need "reminders" and signed a tender for a new cleaning contract. All in all, he thought he did well to be done and out of the office in under two hours.

He stopped at the pathology lab to have his blood taken, then at the shops on the way home where he amused himself by buying treats for Charlie. Cakes, pastries, tinned puddings, frozen pies, custard, and even ice cream made their way into his trolley, and he smiled to himself as he imagined Charlie's face when he offered him steamed treacle pudding for dessert that night.

Charlie was still lying on the settee when he got back to the flat, drowsily watching another kung-fu DVD. He jumped up as soon as he saw Rory walk in the door, and claimed a hug and a kiss as his reward for being patient.

"Mum rang," he said, after deep, tender kisses had been exchanged. "She said she'd call in this evening after dinner."

"I'd better tidy up then," said Rory with a grimace, as he looked at the books, papers and discarded coffee cups that littered the table. He started to clear up but was forestalled by Charlie taking the dirty cup out of his hand.

"We've plenty of time yet. And there is something much more important for you to do right now."

"More important? What could that be?"

"I think it's time we christened the sofa."

Rory raised an eyebrow. "It's been christened. More than once, in fact. I'd even go so far as to say that it's had enough christenings to last it to the next millennium."

Charlie batted his eyelashes and put on his vulnerable, pleading look, the look that Rory knew he was powerless to resist. "Re-christened, then. Please? I want you. I've done nothing but think of you since you left, and I'm hard and desperate."

It was no use, Rory thought, as he took Charlie in another searing kiss. He was damned near powerless against Charlie's persuasive charms, especially when it involved the promise of sensuous delights for the both of them.

He manoeuvred Charlie backwards until they reached the settee and then gave him a push so that he collapsed down onto the cushions, arms and legs splayed. From this angle he could see clear evidence of Charlie's arousal, and he gave a predatory smile as he knelt down between Charlie's legs and pulled off the tracksuit pants and boxers. Charlie's erection sprang free and stood proud and tall, proof that he hadn't been exaggerating his need.

Rory buried his face in the dark curls of his lover's groin and took in a deep breath, inhaling the deep, dark, musky scent. He almost groaned at the wave of intense desire that flowed through him. He'd missed this smell, he hadn't realised just how much he'd longed for it, how much he'd craved the scent of Charlie aroused. Now he had it once more and he was never going to take it for granted again. He was going to take every opportunity to show Charlie just how much he loved and wanted him, how much he could give him.

He nuzzled between Charlie's legs, pulling him closer, spreading his legs wide and dropping soft kisses to the delicate skin behind his balls. He took each soft globe into his mouth and rolled his tongue around it, enjoying the way Charlie moaned and squirmed and wriggled. He ran his nose up the side of the thick, firm cock and pressed open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, applying his tongue in wide, wet strokes.

As he reached the crown, he saw the fluid leaking out from the slit and lapped at it with the very tip of his tongue. Then, holding Charlie's hips down, he pressed his mouth over the head and worked his way down, taking in as much of the shaft as he possibly could. He moved slowly, alternating suction with tongue-strokes, enjoying the feel of Charlie writhing helplessly beneath him.

He had missed the intimacy of doing this for his lover; he had missed the taste of Charlie lingering on his palate, the feel of his thick, hard length filling his mouth and throat. He loved being able to control Charlie's responses with a precision he couldn't achieve while fucking him. He loved hearing Charlie whimper and moan and beg and plead. He loved the way he could vary the stimulation, by fondling Charlie's sac, or inserting a finger or two to massage his prostate. It was almost perfect control, and he loved being in control.

He brought Charlie to a shuddering climax and sat back on his heels, looking at his lover with satisfaction. Charlie was limp and replete, draped over the settee with limbs splayed in every direction, his skin flushed pink and warm. Rory stroked his erection, still confined to his trousers, and wondered if Charlie was going to stay awake long enough to return the favour. Not that it would take very long -- he was hard enough that a simple hand job would bring him off in just a couple of minutes.

Charlie opened his eyes and smiled sleepily up at him. "Looks like you have something for me there," he purred. "Something I want."

"You want this?" asked Rory, undoing his belt, opening up his flies and letting his cock spring free. He was so hard he was almost vertical, and the slow strokes he gave himself brought him dangerously close to spilling into his hand. He didn't want that, not today. He'd wanked himself too many times during the past year, thinking of Charlie, and now that he had him back he wanted to come inside his lover.

"I want you. Come here."

Rory stepped forward and Charlie reached out to grab his hips and pull him close. "Love the taste of you," he whispered as his hand closed around Rory's cock. Then his mouth was over the tip and Rory felt the warm, wet heat of his tongue enveloping and overwhelming him. Charlie had always been good at this, had always known just how to tease him and please him, and it was no surprise that Rory found himself coming within a few short minutes, shooting deep into Charlie's throat. As his orgasm faded, his knees buckled and he twisted himself around so that he could fall onto the settee, suddenly exhausted.

"Fuck, that was good," he breathed.

"Mmm," agreed Charlie, resting his head on Rory's shoulder. "We should do that more often."

"Aye."

They rested for a few more minutes, getting their breath back. Rory fought off the urge to doze -- if he fell asleep he knew he wouldn't wake up until Meg arrived, and that would be horribly embarrassing for all of them. With a groan he heaved himself up off the settee and looked around. In addition to all the clutter that had been there when he walked in, various items of clothing were now scattered around the room. He picked up Charlie's track pants and gave him a nudge with his foot.

"Mmm?" murmured Charlie, half-asleep.

"Time to get dressed again. Don't want you catching cold."

"That's why we have central heating, remember?"

"You still need to be dressed."

Still grumbling, if only half-heartedly, Charlie allowed himself to be dressed and then lay back on the settee while Rory wrapped the duvet around him.

"Coffee? Tea?"

"Mmm, coffee, love, thanks."

"I'll be back in five minutes." He picked up the forgotten groceries from the floor, hoping that the ice-cream hadn't melted completely, and was almost at the kitchen door when Charlie called out.

"Oh, Rory?"

"What?"

"You know that doesn't really count, don't you?"

"What doesn't count?"

"What we just did. It doesn't count as re-christening the sofa."

"Why not?"

"Because it wasn't really sex."

"It was sex."

"Not proper sex. Not you-balls-deep-inside-my-arse sex."

"We both had very satisfying orgasms."

"Still doesn't count." The cheeky grin that Charlie threw his way told Rory that his lover was only teasing him, but now that their insatiable need for sex had been re-kindled, Rory guessed that it was only a matter of time before Charlie started hiding lubricant in every imaginable (and unimaginable) place in the flat and then pouncing without notice. After all, it wasn't just the sofa that needed re-christening.

~~~~~

The doorbell rang at a little after eight, and Rory looked up from the dishwasher he was loading. Charlie was already heading for the door, but Rory hustled him back into the living room where it was warmer. He'd only just allowed Charlie to get up out of bed for a meal, and he had no intention of letting him get another chill.

"Hello?" he said into the intercom.

"Hello, Rory, it's Meg here," came the reply, confirming Rory's guess.

"Ah, fine. Come on up," he said, hitting the buzzer that opened the external door. He hurried back into the living room, tidying up the newspaper and magazines that Charlie had scattered around again. "It's your mother," he said.

There was a knock at the door and both of them went to answer it. Kevin was there, obviously having raced up the steps ahead of his parents, who were just coming into view around the corner, and he darted in immediately.

"Hi, Charlie!" he shouted, trying to squeeze all the breath out of him. "You're back!"

"Hey, kiddo, let me breathe!" Charlie gasped, but he was grinning broadly, and hugging Kevin back just as tightly. He looked past his brother to see his parents come through the door, and stepped forward to hug his mother and his father.

Rory, standing back and observing, decided that Meg had given both Michael and Kevin strict instructions about what they could and couldn't say, as they both appeared to be lost for words once the hellos had been said. Mike said merely, "Good to see you, son," and looked rather uncomfortable once he'd given Charlie a perfunctory hug.

Rory shut the front door behind them and murmured, "I'll make some tea," though he doubted that any of them heard.

He was surprised to find that Kevin followed him into the kitchen. He was thirteen now, but he hadn't yet begun his growth spurt and still appeared very much the boy, with his Nintendo game seemingly glued to his hand.

"I guess things have been fairly intense at home," he ventured, and Kevin nodded.

"Yeah. Mum and Dad had a huge row. Dad didn't want to come over here, but Mum insisted."

"Oh? Did he give a reason?"

"Not really. I think it's 'cause Charlie's still using drugs."

"He isn't. He's on methadone now."

"Dad says that's just as bad."

"Well, it isn't. Not if it's used properly. Not if it's part of a supervised programme." Rory paused in his preparations and looked directly at Kevin. "Charlie's done some bad things in the last couple of years, but that's all finished now. No more drugs, no more trouble with the police. He's going to get over it all and then ... well, then we'll see." _And am I trying to convince Kevin or myself_? he wondered silently.

"Is he going to come home?"

Rory gritted his teeth. _Not if I have anything to do with it._ "I don't know," he said blandly and busied himself with the tea things. "That's up to Charlie."

The kettle boiled and switched itself off. Rory poured the water into the mugs, jiggling the teabags to speed up the infusion. "How does your Dad have his tea?"

"Milk, no sugar."

"Aye, that's right. Did you want some yourself?"

"I'd rather have a Coke."

"I don't have any, sorry. There's some Irn Bru in the fridge though."

Kevin made a face. "No, thanks. I'll be all right."

Rory waited another minute, then pulled out the bags, added milk and sugar where needed and placed the mugs on a tray. The tea was still a little on the weak side, but he wanted to get back into the living room to monitor the conversation -- he didn't trust Meg for a minute, not with Charlie so fragile.

Charlie was back on the settee, with his mother beside him, and they both smiled their thanks. Mike was in one of the armchairs, and gave him a terse acknowledgement as he took the mug before resuming his silent glowering. Rory debated the merits of trying to engage him in conversation, but realised that he was likely to do more harm than good. He sat in the other armchair and watched Charlie talking with Meg.

"The doctor's been really good about it," said Charlie, continuing his conversation. "She's been here three times to see me already."

"That is good," nodded Meg.

"Well, she didn't want me going out in the cold. Rory doesn't either."

"He's already got pneumonia," said Rory, trying not to growl. "I don't want him to get worse going outside the flat."

"I'm sure that Rory's looking after you as best he can, love." Meg sipped her tea and then said the words that Rory had been dreading. "Why don't you come back home, dear? I'd be able to look after you then."

Rory stopped breathing. No one spoke. The room was silent apart from the sound of Kevin playing with his Nintendo game in the corner. Rory's eyes met Charlie's and he prayed that Charlie would read his thoughts, that he would say no, that he would reject his mother's offer and stay with Rory. He couldn't bear it if Charlie left again, even if it was only a few minutes away. He wanted to jump up and tell them all to fuck off and leave them be, but he couldn't. What if Charlie really wanted to go back to his parents? Did Rory have the right to stop him, even if he could foresee that it would never work?

After a few seconds, Charlie's face fell, and Rory realised with a shock that Charlie was waiting for him to speak, waiting for Rory to claim him. This was yesterday's problem all over again, only this time he wasn't going to let unspoken assumptions interfere with their happiness. This time he was going to speak up and tell them that Charlie was already home. This time he would give voice to the thoughts they both shared but that Charlie was too embarrassed to say out loud.

He cleared his throat, and everyone looked at him. "Actually, I think Charlie's better off staying here," he began, and was rewarded by a grateful look from his lover. He breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled back.

Meg, however, was not pleased. "Now, Rory, dear," she began, "I'm very grateful to you for taking him in when I wasn't here, but I think that the best place for Charlie now is at home, with his family."

"He is home," said Rory, and this time he didn't even try to hide the growl. "I am his family."

Charlie looked from his mother to his lover and back. Rory could see the discomfort on his face and cursed Meg for causing such pain. He set his mug down and walked over to the settee, perching on its arm and putting his arms around Charlie's shoulders. He felt Charlie relax and lean back against him, and one hand crept up to touch his, interlacing their fingers. "He is home," he repeated, firmly.

Meg looked affronted. Rory was gearing himself up for a battle -- it would be bloody and destructive, but he wasn't going to let anyone come between them now, not even Charlie's mother -- when help came from an unexpected quarter.

"The boy's right," said Mike. He looked at the pair of them with much less antagonism than usual. "He's better off here."

"Mike -"

"I've told you, I don't want him living in the house while he's on drugs. I haven't changed my mind on that."

Charlie stiffened, but Rory held him close and tried to soothe him by stroking his shoulder.

Mike turned to them. "I'm sorry, son, but it's for the best. I've got Kevin and his friends to think of, and with the both of us working there's no one at home to supervise you."

Rory couldn't see Charlie's face, but he could feel the tension. "That's all right, Mike," he said, keeping his voice calm. "He has a home with me as long as he wants it. I'll take him to get his methadone every morning and I'll make sure he gets to his doctor's appointments. You needn't worry for him while he's with me."

Meg hadn't lost hope. "He needs nursing, Mike, and I'm the best-qualified to do that."

"The doctor's quite happy with the way I'm looking after him."

"He needs a minder, not a nurse," said Mike, in a bitter tone.

"I can do that too, and better than you can," Rory added meaningfully, looking directly at Meg.

Charlie shrugged off Rory's embrace and stood up, his stance angry and tense. "I wish you'd all stop trying to take over my life. I'm addicted, not retarded, and I don't need a bloody nurse. Or a minder."

Rory felt his guts churn. Had he just wrecked his chances of keeping Charlie? He bit his lip to stop himself losing his temper and saying things he would later regret, and clenched his fists to stop him himself grabbing Charlie and physically hauling him up to the safety of the bedroom.

"Charlie, I only want what's best for you," pleaded Meg. "Come home with us."

"That's enough, Meg," said Mike.

"Mike, I can't just stand by and—"

"Hey Mum," piped up Kevin from the corner, having given up any attempt to concentrate on his game, "if Charlie moves back home can I come and live with Rory?"

"No!" was the simultaneous reply from three voices.

Rory looked at them all, hoping that he wasn't actually gaping in astonishment. It took a few seconds for him to realise that Charlie had vetoed Kevin's idea as vehemently as his parents had done, and that, paradoxically, was reassuring. It was also clear that Kevin's mischievous query had diverted them all from another outright argument, and Rory made a mental note to buy him something especially nice as a belated Christmas present.

Charlie ran a hand through his hair. He looked exhausted, and Rory cursed Meg again for putting him through this. Even if Charlie stayed here with him, he would agonise for days over this argument. But Charlie wanted to stay, he knew that, Charlie had told him with his body as clearly as if he had used words.

Clutching at that straw, he stepped forward and stood at Charlie's side, facing Meg. "Charlie's staying here for the time being," he said, quietly but firmly. "He's happy with Dr McKenzie, he's taking his methadone and his antibiotics. It's not a good idea to make him switch doctors now, especially if he has to see Dr Pascoe -- the man has no understanding of Charlie's condition or his needs."

"And your Dr McKenzie does?"

"Aye, she does. And Charlie needs me. He needs someone who can take him to get his methadone every day. He needs someone who won't be distracted by other family demands and who won't unsettle him with arguments." He glanced around to make sure that Mike got the point, then turned back to Meg. "I know you both love Charlie dearly, and he loves you, but right now going back to your house is not the best option for him."

Meg fixed her eye on Charlie. "Do you believe that, love?"

Charlie leaned in to Rory and nodded. "I do, Mum. He's right. If I moved back in with you and Dad it would be worse than last summer, worse than when I left uni. I'm ... I'm settled here. Rory takes care of me -- not the same way you do, but he looks after me. I want to stay here."

Meg's eyes filled with tears and her face crumpled. "Oh Charlie," she wailed, and dissolved into tears.

Mike lumbered up from his chair and took her in his arms. "There, there, Meg, love," he murmured. "Charlie will be all right, you'll see."

Charlie bit his lip, and Rory could see the tears glittering there in his lover's eyes too. He put an arm around his waist and hugged him close.

"He's only a couple of miles away," continued Mike, "and you'll see him every few days. Isn't that right, Rory?"

"Absolutely," replied Rory. "Either you'll be here or we'll be at your house. Maybe we can start doing Sunday lunches again, when Charlie's a bit stronger."

"Yes, that would be lovely," said Meg, through her sniffles. "Don't mind me, I'm just a silly old mum who can't let go of her boy."

"You're not silly," said Charlie. "But I'll be all right. Honestly I will."

She blew her nose and looked up at Rory. "You look after him then. Promise me that."

"I promise," Rory made the vow without hesitation.

"And you promise me that you'll be a good boy and get well," she told Charlie. "And no more running away."

"I promise, Mum."

"Good." She blew her nose again and gathered her things together. "I've got early shift in the morning again, so we'd best be off. Kevin, put that game away and come and say goodbye to your brother."

"Bye, Charlie," said Kevin, grinning up at him for a second before returning to his game.

"Bye, munchkin," replied Charlie, earning himself a scowl.

Meg and Mike made their own farewells and left with their youngest child, who was still avidly concentrating on the game in his hands.

As the door closed behind them, Rory sagged, resting his head against the solid wood of the door. He'd won. He'd taken on Meg at her most insistent, and he'd on. He took a deep breath in and stood straight, holding out his right hand. There was no tremor, not that he would have been surprised to see one after such an emotional scene.

He felt warm hands on his shoulders, and relaxed again as Charlie started to knead away the tension.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You need it."

"No, I meant for staying here, with me."

"What?" Charlie paused and leaned around to peer into Rory's face. "I want to stay here. God, I wouldn't last a week at home." He bit his lip. "You did want me to stay, didn't you?"

Rory turned and gripped Charlie by the arms. "You know I do. But I thought you were wavering there for a bit."

"I thought for a minute you were going to tell me to go to home with Mum."

"No, never. But they are your family -- you deserved the right to choose."

"Well, I chose here. It's not that I don't love them, but I couldn't live at home with my parents again. Especially not now." He sighed. "I just didn't want to upset Mum. I'm happy here."

"I'm happy you're here too. You belong here, with me." He pulled Charlie in for a kiss, then hugged him tightly. "I'll never let you go, Charlie Pace."

"I don't want you to."

"Good." He kissed him again, then headed for the stairs. "Come on, you can finish giving me that backrub."

Later, when they had exhausted and delighted each other, and were lying in each other's arms in post-coital drowsiness, Rory smiled to himself. Charlie was there beside him -- was going to _stay_ beside him -- and the world had never looked so good.

  
 **2.6 -- Picking up old threads**

_Friday 9th January 2004_

Rory had booked them an appointment with Dr McKenzie at her surgery on the Friday morning, as instructed, and they went in together. He knew that the serology test results would be back, and he was a little nervous, though he wouldn't admit it to Charlie. He had tried not to think about it over the last ten days, since Charlie's return, but now it couldn't be put off any longer -- in just a few minutes he was going to know if Charlie had injected himself with more than just heroin, and he wasn't at all sure that he was going to be able to cope with the result. Oddly, the thought that he might have become infected himself hardly crossed his mind; to him it was a minor issue compared with the thought of Charlie getting AIDS.

It wouldn't make any difference in the short term, of course -- Charlie would still stay with him and would continue taking his methadone. But in the long term ... in the long term he might lose Charlie decades earlier than either of them wanted. And it was useless for Meg to say that many people with HIV lived for twenty or thirty years now -- Rory knew that their renewed relationship was far more fragile than he liked, and the stress of a chronic, fatal illness might be more than either of them could cope with. It was hardly surprising, then that he went into Dr McKenzie's surgery with a heavy heart.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Dr McKenzie greeted them warmly. "I'll put you out of your misery straight away and tell you that the serology results for both of you are negative."

"Negative?" repeated Charlie.

Rory looked at her, searching for any sign of dissemblance, but there was none. She had his notes on her desk, and a temporary folder for Charlie's notes, and he could see that the pathology results were topmost in each. He had to believe her.

"That's right," she confirmed. "No hepatitis B or C, and no HIV. Obviously, this result is only the preliminary one, not the final clearance. Because there is a chance that you might have been exposed to the infection very recently, and haven't yet developed antibodies, I'll do another test in three months. If that one comes back negative as well, and if there has been no chance of exposure in the intervening period, then you can consider yourselves as clear."

"But until then we should use condoms?" asked Rory.

"I would advise it, yes."

Charlie made a face, but Rory said, "We'll do that until we get the all-clear. There's no sense in taking unnecessary risks."

"Have you been to the sexual health clinic yet?"

"Yes, we went on Tuesday." Rory grimaced at the memory. "We both had swabs and samples taken. They said that they'd send you a copy of the results."

"Good. Now, I'd like to listen to Mr Pace's chest and make sure that it's continuing to improve."

Charlie's chest having demonstrated the necessary improvement, the remainder of the consultation went quickly and they returned to the car. The bitter cold and dull grey sky almost made Rory regret that he had allowed Charlie out of doors and his instinct was to whisk him straight back to the warmth of the flat before returning to the office. He was caught by surprise when Charlie cleared his throat and asked, somewhat diffidently, if they might go to buy some clothes.

Rory felt contrite. He should have remembered that -- he'd even suggested it himself. Charlie had been wearing Rory's clothes for the last ten days, but of course he would want some of his own, and thanks to Rory's fit of temper a year ago, there was nothing left of Charlie's old clothes in the flat. The slight difference in height and build had been negligible while Charlie was ill and only requiring pyjamas and tracksuits, but now that he was starting to fill out again and was well enough to go outdoors, he was going to need jeans and shirts and jumpers and a warm coat. It was definitely time to go shopping.

Rory drove them into the city and they strolled through the Arndale centre, buying the essentials that Charlie needed, including a warm, thick woollen coat, and good sturdy shoes. Neither of them could ignore the memory of a similar shopping trip in the summer of 1999, when Charlie had been a penniless unemployed ex-student and Rory had owned him for a month.

"Seems like old times, doesn't it?" said Charlie with a bittersweet smile, as they browsed through some shirts. "Me being penniless, you buying me clothes."

"You're not penniless as long as you're with me," Rory assured him.

"I know that," Charlie acknowledged, "but I can't be dependent on you forever. I want to earn my own living."

"You want to get a job?"

Charlie shrugged. "I guess I'll have to. No one's going to offer me a recording contract, and the DriveShaft royalties aren't much any more."

"You should try for a solo career."

"Yeah, like that's going to work." He sounded unusually bitter.

"Why not?" Rory asked him, genuinely surprised at his negativity. "You have the talent. I know you wrote most of the band's songs."

"I haven't written a song in years."

"Doesn't mean you can't -"

Charlie interrupted him. "Look, let's just forget it. The band is dead and gone and so is my career. There's no point in me dreaming of things that aren't going to happen. I'm just going to have to find something else to do."

Rory was surprised at Charlie's vehemence, but he let the subject drop for the moment. He told himself that he could always nudge Charlie in that direction later on, when he felt a little stronger. For now, he would just support Charlie and let him heal in peace.

  
 _Sunday 11th January 2004 3am_

Rory woke up, feeling a bit cold, and automatically reached out an arm to check for Charlie. He encountered only cool sheets, and that was enough to bring him to full alertness in an instant. He switched on the light and looked to his side, wincing as his eyes blurred, but the bed was empty. Charlie was gone.

He glanced over to the bathroom, but the door was open and the light off. He hurried out of bed, grabbing his dressing gown as he headed for the door. He ran down the stairs, switching the lights on as he went. Charlie wasn't in the living room, or the kitchen, or the laundry.

Rory's heart began to pound. Surely he hadn't run off again? They hadn't argued. They'd talked about things Charlie had done while he was on heroin, but he didn't think there had been anything so traumatic as to make Charlie run away. Charlie had been taking his methadone and seemed quite happy. He couldn't think of any reason why Charlie might have run off.

He thought back to the shopping trip. Charlie now had clothes and shoes and a coat. Was that all he had been waiting for? Had he played Rory for a fool, just biding his time until he had the things he needed to make his escape?

No, he refused to believe that. All the previous day Charlie had been making plans for the future, talking about jobs he might get. He'd even mentioned doing a cookery course and maybe opening a restaurant. Rory was positive that he had been genuinely planning the future, not just creating a smokescreen to assuage Rory's concerns.

He ran a hand through his hair. Where could Charlie have gone? Maybe to his parents' place. He looked at the clock, but it was only half past three. He couldn't possibly call anyone at that hour.

_Think. Analyse. Plan._

He took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. All right. First thing to do was to check all the rooms again, to make doubly sure Charlie wasn't huddled behind the furniture. Then he'd get dressed and look around the grounds. If he still couldn't find him, he'd take the car and follow the road to the Paces' house. And if he wasn't there he'd talk to Meg and they'd work something out.

Fine. He had a plan.

He looked around the kitchen again but there was literally nowhere for a grown man to hide. He walked through to the living room and searched behind the chairs and sofa, but there was nothing. He even looked in the cupboard under the stairs, but all he found there were some cobwebs and a couple of beetles, which he noted for later extermination.

He climbed the stairs again and checked the main bathroom, then the bedroom and ensuite. No Charlie. Unless ... he whirled around and opened the door to the spare bedroom, switching on the light.

Charlie was curled up on the mat.

Rory sagged against the door frame, relief making him weak-kneed and dizzy.

Charlie woke as soon as the light went on, and sat up, bleary-eyed and curious. "Wassamarrer?" he mumbled, yawning and stretching the stiffness from his joints.

Rory swallowed. "I -- I couldn't find you. I woke up and you weren't in the bed and I couldn't find you."

Charlie scrambled to his feet and hurried over. "I'm sorry," he said. "I woke up so I came in here to do some T'ai Chi for a while. I guess I must have fallen asleep." He wrapped his arms around Rory and hugged him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Rory returned the hug, tightening his arms and burying his face in Charlie's shoulder. "I thought you'd gone. I was going to go looking for you," he whispered, ashamed to sound so worried.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Charlie repeated.

They stood in silence for a couple of minutes, holding each other tightly. Finally, Rory felt calm enough to loosen his hold a little. He lifted his head and looked Charlie in the eye. "Don't you ever leave me again," he ordered.

"I won't. I promise," Charlie said, his face serious and solemn.

"Twice I've let you walk away from me. I won't let you go a third time. If you ever leave me now, I'll hunt you down wherever you go, however long it takes. I won't stop until I find you."

Charlie nodded. "I won't ever leave you." He kissed Rory gently on the lips to seal the vow, then touched their foreheads together.

"Fuck, Charlie, don't do this to me," Rory whispered.

"Shh, I'm sorry I worried you. I won't leave, I promise."

Rory relaxed a little. He heard the sincerity in Charlie's voice and believed him -- at least for the moment. He took a deep breath and brought himself back under control., then brought a hand up to cup Charlie's face and kissed him back. This kiss was longer, and quickly became less chaste and more sensual.

Charlie's hands undid the belt of Rory's dressing gown and sipped inside to encircle his waist. Rory pulled Charlie in, wanting to bring him as close as possible. Their tongues were sliding over each other, and their breath was ragged. Rory was hardening and he wanted Charlie to feel that, so he arched his hips forward. Charlie pushed back, adding a sideways shift that demonstrated his own burgeoning erection. "Let's get back to bed," he murmured.

Rory led him back to the bedroom, trying not to let him get more than a few inches away. They fell into the bed, and Rory shoved his hands inside Charlie's pyjama pants, pushing them down over his bottom, bringing a hand around to the front. Charlie was only semi-hard, but a few pulls from Rory's hand got him fully erect and groaning.

The panic Rory had experienced made him want to take Charlie fast and hard, but Charlie apparently had other ideas, running his hands over every inch of skin that he could reach, kissing Rory's neck and chest and abdomen, touching him with love and tenderness and desire.

"Fuck, you're killing me," groaned Rory.

Charlie grinned up at him. "Not yet," he said, reaching for the cock that was just in front of his face. He ran his tongue up the shaft in one long, broad stroke and Rory shuddered. After another teasing lick, Charlie pushed open Rory's legs. "I want to fuck you tonight," he announced, the confidence in his voice betrayed by the slightly anxious look he cast up at Rory.

"Aye," breathed Rory, his sudden acquiescence possibly influenced by the attention that Charlie's tongue was now giving to the skin behind his balls, leading down to his entrance. He'd always loved this, he knew Charlie used it when he wanted his own way, but it felt so fucking good that Rory was powerless to resist him. And it didn't really matter, he knew that Charlie was always careful with him, he'd have a shattering orgasm around Charlie's cock and then he'd sleep like the dead for the rest of the night. He'd have his revenge in the morning.

~~~~~

They woke late and made love again, holding each other close and sharing kisses and caresses. Rory took the revenge he'd promised himself, bringing Charlie to the brink of orgasm twice before he put his cock anywhere near the one place it wanted to be. Charlie didn't seem to mind, once he'd stopped cursing and begging, and Rory collapsed back onto the sheets in boneless exhaustion.

It was well past eleven o'clock when they made it downstairs, but Charlie cooked them a big fried breakfast that Rory was sure would keep him full until the evening -- eggs and bacon and sausages and mushrooms and baked beans and some left-over mashed potato. He'd probably die of a coronary before he was fifty, but he wasn't going to turn down Charlie's cooking. Replete and yawning, he took his mug of tea into the living room and settled himself down on the sofa.

"So, what are we going to do for the rest of the day?"

"There's football on the TV," answered Charlie, putting down his coffee and reaching for the TV guide.

Football. Rory was not really in the mood for football, but it would do to get Charlie's mind off his troubles, and he could always try and catch up on some sleep. "Sounds good," he said, retrieving his tea and putting his feet up on the table.

Charlie looked at him sideways, from under his eyelashes, and ran a hand up his thigh. "Don't get any ideas about sleeping," he said, his voice dark and sultry.

"You kept me up half the night," countered Rory. "I'm old, I need my sleep."

"You're not that old."

"I feel old."

"Feel me then, I'm younger."

Rory grinned and put his hand between Charlie's legs. "Like this?"

"Mmm, just like that."

The feel of Charlie's cock hardening under his touch was definitely stimulating. He felt himself stirring in response, and decided that a nap could wait a while. "You're right, I feel younger already."

Charlie's legs spread wide for him, and Rory took full advantage of it, fondling his lover's balls through the woollen cloth, teasing at the ridge of flesh that was straining the fabric. Charlie only lasted a short while before he was frantically scrabbling at his belt and zip, freeing himself to Rory's touch.

"Where's the lube?" asked Rory, hoping that he didn't have to trudge upstairs.

He needn't have worried -- Charlie reached a hand behind the cushions and pulled out a tube of lubricant and a strip of condoms. "Right here where we need it," he announced, with a grin of triumph.

Rory straddled him and kissed him deeply as a reward, rubbing his own cloth-covered groin against Charlie's bare cock. Charlie was groaning and lifting his hips to meet him, his hands gripping Rory's waist.

"Want you," moaned Charlie. "Want you deep inside me."

Rory pulled at Charlie's trousers, dragging them down to his thighs. "Turn around."

"Let me up then."

Rory helped him to stand up, but found that the proximity of their mouths demanded a kiss, which led to a close embrace, and that led to some serious fondling. They spent the next few minutes kissing and groping each other with increasing passion, their hands slipping underneath layers of clothing, until Charlie eventually pulled away, kicking off his trousers and leaning over the back of the sofa. He wriggled his bottom provocatively at Rory, who was busy removing his own clothing.

"Hurry up."

"I am hurrying," he replied, throwing the trousers and boxers onto the nearby armchair and reaching for the lubricant. "Spread for me."

Charlie spread his knees apart and Rory reached between them to stroke his perineum and scrotum, spreading lubricant liberally over the area -- he loved Charlie wet and slippery, even if the condom dulled the sensation. His fingers rolled around Charlie's entrance, teasing it, before sliding inside and stretching him, then Charlie opened the condom for him and he rolled it over his erection before coating himself with more lubricant.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

He lined himself up and pushed in, slowly, trying to register every small change in sensation as he advanced into his lover's body. He loved being inside Charlie, it felt so hot, so right, and so very, very good. He held onto Charlie's hips and pulled himself in the last inch, until his groin was pressed as tightly into Charlie's buttocks as it would go. He slid one hand around to fondle Charlie's balls and indulged himself with a kiss and a bite to Charlie's shoulder before pulling back a little way and starting to pump in and out.

There was no rush this afternoon, no desperate hurry to come to completion -- at least, not yet -- and they took their time, changing positions and taking breaks for long, deep, wet kisses. They ended up with Rory on his back, watching Charlie ride his cock and gripping Charlie's own erection with two lubricated hands.

Charlie was incoherent and flailing as he attempted to coordinate the various movements his body demanded. His climax seemed to take him by surprise -- it certainly did Rory -- as he spurted all over Rory's chest and abdomen. The sight and feel of Charlie's ejaculation was all the stimulus Rory needed to follow him, and he thrust up frantically into Charlie's still-pulsing arse. After that, there was nothing more to do but support Charlie as he collapsed against Rory's chest, boneless and exhausted.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, regaining their breath and holding each other close. Charlie had his head burrowed into Rory's shoulder and gave the salty, sweaty skin a tentative lick. Rory laughed at the ticklish sensation and hugged him closer. He was sleepy now, and a post-coital nap was looking like a very good option. They would have plenty of time to tidy up later, after all.

He smiled smugly to himself. Now even Charlie would have to admit that the sofa was well and truly re-christened.

  



	3. Recovery

**3.1 -- Adjustment**

_Friday 16th January 2004_

Charlie woke in the dark, feeling the chill of the night air on his face. For just a second he couldn't work out where he was, and his heart began to race, then, with a sense of relief, he remembered and smiled. He was at Rory's flat; he was safe. It was warm under the duvet, and he could hear Rory next to him, snuffling a little as he always did. He breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, as he had done each day since he'd arrived back in Manchester, for being alive, for being warm and fed, and for being with Rory. It had been more than two weeks now, but still he woke with the fear that it might have been a dream, and that he might find himself back in Tuomi's flat, back inside the nightmare.

He turned his head towards his lover, but it was too dark to see anything but the vaguest outline of Rory's head. He was too far away from Charlie, that was the problem. It took only a few seconds to wriggle closer and curl up against Rory's side, and he noted with pleasure that Rory half-turned towards him, so that their faces touched. Charlie pressed a kiss to Rory's cheek, snaked an arm under Rory's neck, and pulled him in close. Rory muttered something indistinct, then moved his own arm up so that it rested on Charlie's waist.

It had bothered him, before, that Rory was never as demonstrative when he was awake as he was when he was asleep -- that he avoided any intimate contact with Charlie when they were in public. To Charlie, it had always seemed as if Rory was ashamed of him, of having a boyfriend, of being gay. But Rory had always been there when Charlie needed him, which was something that Charlie hadn't truly realised until after he ran away; until he'd found himself truly alone. Being there was important -- more important than mere words. Charlie knew that now. Rory was there for him, and Rory loved him, truly and deeply. That was all that mattered.

He snuggled a little closer to his lover and drifted off to sleep again, happy, warm and secure. Safe.

~~~~~

It was an hour later that the alarm sounded, harsh and demanding, startling them both out of sleep. Charlie felt Rory stir and groan before pulling himself away slowly and sitting up. Then Rory shook him gently. "Wake up," his said, his voice gruff.

Charlie grunted and nodded, but didn't open his eyes. He was awake -- he just didn't want to acknowledge it. He felt Rory's hand running through his hair and smiled.

"Charlie," whispered Rory.

"Hmm," he replied.

"Time to get up."

"Mmm."

Rory's hand continued stroking his hair, then his shoulders, then down over his chest and abdomen. Charlie wriggled a little -- he was ticklish there -- but kept his eyes firmly closed.

"Charlie, we have to get up," whispered Rory again, lying back down and pulling Charlie to him. Charlie snuggled closer and made a small contented sound in his throat, which meant, as he knew Rory would understand, "Yes I know, but it's cold outside and you're warm and comfortable, and I want to stay here in bed with you."

Rory nibbled at his throat and neck, then produced his trump card. "Wake up, love. I can't shag you if you're fast asleep."

Charlie opened his eyes and looked up to see Rory smiling down at him.

"I thought that would get your attention."

Charlie reached up and pulled Rory down for a proper kiss. "Best idea you've had all day."

"It's only seven a.m."

"So?"

His hands were moving now, lightly brushing over the hairs on Rory's chest, teasing a nipple, trailing his fingers down to that sensitive spot just below the waist. He laughed softly as Rory squirmed.

"So," Rory tried to continue the conversation, though Charlie could see he was having difficulties, "you have a doctor's appointment at nine, and that means we don't have much time."

"Thought you said you wanted to shag me."

"I do. Otherwise I'd have set the alarm for seven-thirty."

"I don't suppose we could shag _instead_ of going to the doctor?"

"No. But if you're good and get ready quickly, I'll bring you home and shag you again before I go into the office."

Charlie grinned. This bribery lark was turning into the best thing he'd ever suggested. "Sounds good," he said. "Except for the bit about the office."

"Have to, Charlie," muttered Rory, before kissing him deeply.

"I know." He reached between them and started stroking Rory's cock, still half-hard. "Hmm. Feels like you need this."

"Always need you," Rory whispered, his own hand finding Charlie's erection.

They started slowly, rhythmically, wriggling a little until they were both comfortable and then increasing the pace gradually.

"That's good," breathed Charlie, as Rory's fingers curved over the head and trailed back down the shaft.

"When we get back, I'm going to fuck you in the kitchen. You're going to stand at the sink and I'm going to fuck you from behind. Your cock's going to be pressed up against the cold steel while mine's buried in your heat. I'm going to come inside you, then I'm going to turn you around and suck you off, taste you, swallow you down ..."

That did it. Charlie threw his head back and shuddered as he came, his mind filled with the image of Rory's mouth on him.

When he opened his eyes again, Rory was watching him with that fierce, possessive look that Charlie both loved and dreaded. He looked down, unable to take the intensity of the emotion for very long, and saw that Rory was still hard -- that, at least, he could do something about. Grinning, he pushed Rory onto his back and moved down until he was able to take his lover's cock into his mouth. He knew that Rory loved this, and if he was going to get properly shagged in a few hours, it was the least he could do for him.

He licked all around the head, pressing into the foreskin with his tongue, giving it tiny flicks alternating with smooth, broad swipes. He held it firmly in his hand, pressing in with his fingers and adding a gentle stroke. Rory was twitching and arching, and his hands were running through Charlie's hair, trying to push him down. Charlie took the hint and took it in as far as he possibly could, deep into his throat, feeling the smoothness of the skin and the ridges and furrows of the shaft, and tasting the musk of the fluid that was leaking from the head. He could smell Rory's sweat and arousal, too, and with the covers over his head and the heat from their bodies it felt like they were in a small world of their own, just the two of them, warm and secure and protected.

He was so caught up in the wonderful feeling of being warm and content with his lover that he almost missed the signs that Rory was close to his climax, but a sudden series of jerks alerted him and he gave a few swift strokes with tongue and hand to encourage Rory to come into his throat. He swallowed rapidly, drinking it all down, and then slowly letting the softening cock slip out of his mouth.

He crawled up to rest his head in the hollow of Rory's shoulder, and they stayed like that for a few minutes, holding each other close and expressing their love in the tiniest of movements and softly-murmured endearments. Charlie could have lain there for the rest of the day quite happily, but Rory was keeping a close eye on the clock and threw back the covers all too soon.

"Time to get up."

"Can't we sleep a little longer?"

"No, we have appointments. Come on, love, have your shower and I'll make breakfast for you."

"It had better be a good breakfast."

"It will be."

Charlie allowed himself to be gently pulled up from the bed, though he managed to cajole a few kisses from his lover before he was pushed, inexorably, into the bathroom. Still sleepy and slow, he turned on the shower and rested his forehead against the tiles while the water warmed up. At least he didn't have to shave -- they were only seeing the pharmacist and the doctor, so he just had to be decently covered, not dressed up. And he could always take a nap later in the day, since -- as usual -- he would have nothing else to do until Rory got back from work.

He became more alert once he got in and felt the heat on his skin. There was something so invigorating about hot water, he mused, letting it cascade over him, taking away the fatigue and the residue of sleep and sex along with the dirt. Not that he was very dirty these days -- he had a new-found appreciation for personal hygiene since returning to Manchester, and sometimes showered two or even three times a day. The visible scars of his last few weeks in London had faded, until all that was left were a few pink spots on his arms and a faint pigmented area around the wrists. Mental scars, though, were proving to be much tougher. He still woke sometimes with a surge of fear, and had to reassure himself that he was free, that he was safe, and that Rory knew nothing about it. And that was the way it was going to stay.

~~~~~

Dr McKenzie was happy with his progress -- his chest was clear and he had put on three kilos.

"That's good," he responded. "Can I do more exercise then? I feel like I'm going stir crazy."

"I think that would be a good idea. Nothing too strenuous though, just light weights and a little cardiovascular work. Your body is still getting over the infection, so don't over-do it. Make sure that you give yourself adequate rest time to allow your body to adjust."

"Will it affect the methadone dose?" he asked.

"No, that is governed solely by the liver enzymes. How is the methadone going? Are you getting any symptoms of withdrawal?"

"Just a little discomfort in the mornings."

"Is it waking you?"

"A couple of times."

"Any nausea or sweating?"

"No."

"Are you getting any drowsiness or nausea after your dose in the mornings?"

"No, not at all."

"I'll increase the dose just a little then, and we'll review it next week. As always, if you get any withdrawal symptoms, let me know immediately."

"I will."

"Now that you are getting a little better physically, I think it's time to discuss some psychological therapy for you."

"Do I have to?"

Dr McKenzie looked at him gravely. "Addiction has psychological components to it as well as physical dependence. I think that if you are serious about wanting to stay off the heroin you would benefit from seeing a psychologist."

He frowned and looked down at his feet. He really didn't fancy the idea of seeing a psychologist and having to relate his innermost thoughts and fears to a complete stranger -- it was bad enough with Rory, who knew and loved him.

"Come on, Charlie," Rory said, encouragingly. "If the doctor says it will help, it's probably a good idea to do it."

"I know, it's just ... I just don't want to talk about some things."

"I'm sure that the psychologist will allow you enough time to become comfortable before touching on any deep-seated issues," the doctor reassured him, "but it is important to work through all the things that can influence your addiction so that the risk of relapse in the long term can be minimised."

"I know that," he muttered.

Rory gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry about it just now, it'll be a while before you get your first appointment anyway. You'll have time to get used to the idea."

Charlie nodded, and hoped that Rory was right.

They left the surgery with the referral and the methadone script, and Rory drove them back to the flat. Charlie half-thought that Rory would drop him at the door as he sometimes did when they were running late, but Rory was as good as his word and pushed Charlie up against the door as soon as it had closed.

"Get those clothes off," he growled.

Charlie had no objection to that, though how he was supposed to carry out the order when Rory's hands were all over him, he had no idea. He settled for sliding his hands under Rory's clothes instead, and they groped and fondled and kissed each other for several minutes, at the end of which various items of clothing were undone and partially removed, and intimate body parts were in close proximity.

"Weren't we supposed to be in the kitchen?" Charlie murmured, when at last Rory had released his mouth and moved on to nibbling at his neck.

"Mmm," Rory answered, non-committally. "Here's just as good."

"I'll get carpet burns."

"So?"

Charlie managed to push Rory away just enough so that he could look at him. "I distinctly recall that you were going to shag me up against the kitchen sink."

"It's too far away."

That, Charlie had to admit, was a problem. On the other hand ...

"Stairs are right here."

Rory turned and looked at the stairs, which were, indeed only a metre away from them. "Lube?"

Charlie opened the drawer of the hall table and brought out a brand new tube of lubricant. "Ta da!"

Rory smiled and shook his head. "Is there anywhere you haven't hidden lube?"

Charlie grinned back. "Nope. Every conceivable hiding place, and a few you'd never dream of besides."

"I don't suppose there's a condom in there as well?"

"Do we have to?"

Rory's smile faded. "Aye, we do. You know that."

Charlie wanted to protest -- he hated being separated from his lover during sex, even if it was only by the thinnest of latex membranes -- but the look on Rory's face stopped him. Rory didn't like it either, he knew that, but it wasn't fair for him to risk Rory's health. Instead he took a strip of condoms from the back of the drawer and held them out. "Here you are."

Rory took them and pulled Charlie in close, kissing him tenderly. "It's all right, Charlie. It's not for much longer."

"Two and a half months," he grumbled.

"Ten weeks."

Charlie multiplied in his head. "Seventy days."

Rory smiled. "How many condoms are we going to need then?" he asked, nuzzling at Charlie's ear.

"At least two hundred." That was right, wasn't it? Three times a day for seventy days was two hundred and ten ... at least, he thought it was. It was difficult to concentrate when Rory was nibbling on the very sensitive skin under his ear.

"Three times a day?"

"Not -- not counting hand jobs or oral, of course."

Rory laughed and kissed him, pulling him away from the door and turning so that Charlie was closest to the stairs. "This will count, I promise you that."

Charlie leaned over and braced himself on the stairs as Rory pulled down his track pants. The lube was cold enough to make him jump, but soon warmed up with Rory's ministrations. He heard the rustle as the condom was opened, and then felt Rory's cock nudging at his entrance.

He sighed as Rory pushed forward and entered him. He loved this, loved the feeling of being penetrated, being filled by his lover. There was nothing else like it in the world, and he closed his eyes so he could concentrate on it with all his might.

Rory's slick hand came around and took hold of his cock, squeezing gently in time with his thrusts. He was moaning now, unable to stay silent as Rory's cock stroked him inside, scraping over all the most sensitive areas and driving him closer and closer to his climax.

Their movements became faster and more forceful, and the sounds they were making got louder and louder, until Charlie came, crying out and shooting all over the stairs in front of him. He braced himself as Rory gripped his hips firmly and thrust rapidly until he shuddered and came.

It was all Charlie could do not to collapse onto the floor, but Rory held him steady and they stood there, panting, until they had recovered sufficiently to move. Rory withdrew and carefully removed the condom, tying a knot in it.

Charlie looked at the mess on the stairs. "Fuck," he said, wearily. He knew who would be the one doing the scrubbing once Rory had left for work.

"What?"

"We made a mess on the carpet."

"Not my fault. It's your come."

"It's totally your fault. We were supposed to be in the kitchen, remember? Not my fault if you couldn't wait."

"Are you complaining?" Rory turned him around and held him close, striking his back and buttocks.

"Just a bit."

"Won't do you any good."

"I know."

They kissed and hugged for a while, then Rory sighed. "I have to go to work."

"You need to shower again first."

"I know."

They readjusted their clothing and went up to the bathroom, where Charlie made an attempt at helping Rory to wash and dress, until Rory realised that he was really trying keep him from getting dressed and threw him out.

Grinning and totally unrepentant, Charlie went back down to the kitchen for some detergent and a cloth to clean the mess off the carpet. He'd have his revenge when Rory got home.

  
_Saturday 17th January, 4 am_

"No! No! Tuomi, please!"

With the anguished cry still ringing in his ears, Charlie woke up. His heart was racing and his skin was clammy with sweat.

"What's wrong?" asked Rory beside him, his voice anxious.

It was a few seconds before Charlie could answer, by which time Rory had switched the bedside lamp on, and Charlie had to close his eyes until they adjusted. The duvet was all over on Rory's side of the bed -- no wonder he'd been cold, no wonder he'd dreamed that he was back in the nightmare.

"Bad dream," he managed to croak. His voice was shaky and so were his hands.

"Are you OK now?"

Charlie nodded.

"You want to tell me about it?'

He shook his head. There were things he would much rather Rory didn't know, things he was ashamed of. If only the dreams would stop ... he had expected them to fade, but it seemed that instead they were getting more vivid and more frightening.

"Nothing important. Just a bad dream."

"You're having a lot of bad dreams."

Charlie shrugged. "Only to be expected, I guess."

Rory looked worried. "Who's Tuomi?"

"No one."

"Don't fucking lie to me. You sounded terrified."

Charlie shivered at the memories that crowded his mind. He really didn't want to remember, but since the dreams had started, he found himself recalling more and more of what had gone on in those final few days before he had made his escape. He felt nauseated, and ashamed, and wished with all his heart that he had never fallen into Tuomi's trap. He just hoped that he could keep the worst of it from Rory. There were things that Rory never had to know. There were things it wouldn't be safe for him to know.

"I'm just cold. You keep hogging the duvet."

"Sorry." Rory spread the duvet back over both of them, and Charlie burrowed into the blessed warmth.

"Are you all right?" Rory whispered.

"Am now. Go back to sleep."

Rory switched off the light and lay down. Charlie snuggled close to his lover, thankful for Rory's warm presence, but he didn't dare sleep again.

  
 **3.2 -- Confession**

_Sunday 18th January 2004, 11 am_

Charlie grimaced as he drew the bedroom curtains back. The fog was so thick that he couldn't even see the trees in the garden, and the air was grey and gloomy and dank. It wasn't surprising that the airport was closed, as he'd heard on the news, and he was thankful that they didn't have to leave the flat. Rory had suggested going to the cinema, but frankly Charlie thought they'd be better off staying inside. In fact, he was tempted to draw the curtains closed again and keep them in their own little world, lit by yellow lamps and warmed by the radiators.

Having made the decision, he closed the curtains and shut out the cold. It was the work of a minute to straighten the bed and fluff up the duvet and pillows, and then to collect the dirty coffee cups to take downstairs.

Rory was still in the kitchen, washing the breakfast dishes. Charlie stood by the door for a second, simply looking at the man he loved. He would never take Rory for granted again, not now that he knew how bleak and cold and miserable life was without him. He needed Rory as much as he needed air to breathe, and he would do anything to keep Rory happy.

He snaked an arm around Rory to put the cups in the sink, then nuzzled the back of his neck.

"It's too cold to go out," he stated, a little indistinctly, his lips moving against the pale skin. "I think we should stay inside."

"I wanted to see that film."

"We can go later in the week. It's horrible outside."

Rory leaned forward and peered out into the gloom. "Aye, you could be right."

"I am right. I'd get triple pneumonia if I went out in that lot."

"There's no such thing."

"Is too. I'd go all pale and interesting."

Rory turned around and smiled at him, sliding wet soapy arms around his waist. "Ye're an eejit sometimes."

"But you love me."

"Aye, that I do."

They kissed, slowly and gently, the merest touch of lips and tongue saying all the words that they were too embarrassed to say out loud, like "I love you" and "I'm so grateful you are here" and "you make me whole again".

As always, their kisses ignited the passion that was never far from their minds and bodies. Somehow they had turned so that Charlie was the one pressed up against the sink, and Rory was holding him, ravaging his mouth and rubbing their groins together. It felt absolutely fantastic and Charlie was having difficulty staying upright.

"Want you," he murmured at one point, when they had separated just enough to breathe.

"I want you too."

"Take me."

"Maybe I should tie your hands to the taps and fuck you right here," growled Rory into his ear.

It was like a slap in the face.

Taps. Ropes. Cold metal and cold tiles and so much pain ...

He froze. He couldn't help it.

The memory that Rory's words had triggered was by no means the worst he had experienced at Tuomi's hand, but the cold and the desolation he had felt was enough to make him shiver, and he saw, in his mind's eye, the bathroom that Tuomi had let him use occasionally, the pipes he'd been tied to, the tiles he'd been pressed up against, the ever-present nausea of withdrawal ... it was all mixed up in one dreadful memory.

"What?" Rory leaned back far enough to look him in the eye.

"Nothing." He tried to banish the picture from his mind. He reached for Rory's bottom and pulled their hips together. "Just don't fancy being tied up today. I want to see you. I want to feel you inside me and kiss you at the same time."

He thought for a moment that he'd carried it off, but Rory gave him a puzzled look.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Rory asked. "I can wait till later if you're not in the mood."

Charlie felt irritated. He didn't want to be reminded of Tuomi, and by some mischance he was reminded, he didn't want it turned into a big deal. "I'm OK, honestly. I want you to fuck me, I just don't want to be tied up."

He kissed Rory as deeply as he could, pressing forward with his hips -- and thank goodness he hadn't lost his erection for more than a second -- trying to show Rory that he was still very much interested in sex.

He felt Rory's response, and wriggled his hands between them so he could undo the buckle and zip and that separated him from those bits of his lover that he liked best.

"Want you in me," he groaned, pushing Rory onto the chair and getting rid of his own jeans fast. It was the work of a moment to grab lube and a condom from the stoneware jar labelled "Biscuits", and he almost giggled in delight at Rory's startled expression.

"You didn't think I'd run the risk of getting caught short, did you?" he asked, ripping the foil packet open and running the condom over Rory's impressive length.

"No," admitted Rory, gasping as Charlie squeezed out a dollop of cold lubricant over his cock, "I should have guessed you would have something in here."

"Every room in the flat, love," Charlie replied, straddling Rory's thighs, using one hand to steady himself and the other to hold steady the cock that he was about to impale himself on.

They sighed in unison as Charlie sank down, taking Rory's rock-hard erection deep inside him.

"That feels so fucking good," breathed Rory.

"Aye, it is," agreed Charlie, moving just a little. "Can never get enough of you."

"I don't think there's any more you could get of me, I'm in so deep.'

"Good." Charlie began to move steadily, smiling as he saw Rory struggling to stay still. It wouldn't last -- Rory always ended up thrusting, no matter what position they were in -- but it was incredibly good to be in control for a little while, being the one who set the pace and the mood, knowing that even when Rory had had enough of being passive, his only thought would be to make it good for both of them.

As if he could read Charlie's thoughts, Rory started to move, and it wasn't long before Charlie was bouncing up and down and Rory was thrusting frantically and trying to pump Charlie's cock at the same time.

"That's it, oh ... oh ... " wailed Charlie as he reached his climax, spurting semen onto Rory's chest and shirt. He could see by the way Rory's face turned rigid that he was in the throes of his own orgasm, and squeezed his arse as tightly as he could, feeling the aftershocks triggered each time Rory's cock pushed against his prostate. Holy Mary, he would never get sick of this, not ever.

It was a few more seconds before they relaxed, with Charlie leaning forward and resting on Rory's shoulder. Rory squirmed as his wet shirt front was pressed against his skin and looked down at the mess.

"Look what you did, ye wee shilpit lad -- that was a clean shirt."

Charlie grinned, totally and utterly unrepentant. "You should have taken it off then. You know I always come on your chest."

"Aye, you do." Rory pulled him in for a quick kiss. "Do you think you can get off me without messing up my slacks?"

Charlie looked down and considered the problem. "No," he decided. "As soon as I move it's all going to ooze out. And there isn't even a tea towel within reach." He kissed Rory's nose. "I'll take them into the dry-cleaner for you, if you're too embarrassed."

Rory sighed, but he didn't look angry, so Charlie eased himself up, trying his best to clench his muscles tightly, but as he had predicted, there was quite a bit of fluid staining the front of Rory's trousers.

"It's just as well I love you," muttered Rory as he stood up and removed the offending garments, dropping them onto the kitchen floor.

"You're the one who was so eager he couldn't undress," Charlie replied, grabbing a paper towel and wiping himself off.

"You didn't give me a chance!" protested Rory. "You pushed me down on the chair and sat on me before I could even draw a breath."

Charlie acknowledged the truth of that with a grin and another kiss. "You love me when I'm eager."

"Aye, I do." Rory shivered slightly as they separated.

"Upstairs and have a shower," ordered Charlie, gathering up Rory's discarded clothing.

Rory headed upstairs, while Charlie took the slacks over to the sink and rinsed off the worst of the mess. He draped them over the back of a chair to dry, then picked up his jeans from the floor and headed up the stairs himself. Rory was already towelling himself dry, so Charlie peeled off his shirt and stepped into the shower. He was always ambivalent about washing after sex -- he really loved smelling of Rory -- but it was Sunday, and he had no doubt at all that there would be at least one more deep and satisfying fuck before dinner.

Rory was pulling on a pair of jeans when Charlie re-entered the bedroom, and looked up. "What did I do wrong?"

Bugger, thought Charlie. Just when he thought he'd distracted Rory successfully enough to make him forget about it ... He tried to feign ignorance, giving Rory a blank stare. It didn't work.

"Before. You froze up for a second. What was it about?"

"Oh, that. It was nothing."

"It wasn't 'nothing'. I made a joke about tying you up and you looked scared out of your wits." He stood up put his arms around Charlie's waist. Charlie tried to shrug and pull away, but Rory held him firmly. "Charlie. Tell me."

Fuck this. Rory was like a bulldog worrying at a bone when he wanted to know something. Charlie really didn't need this right now. He contemplated walking out but then he caught sight of the worried look in those green eyes. He took a deep breath and let himself lean on Rory's shoulder.

"It was just a bad memory."

"Must have been very bad. What happened? Is it connected with the nightmares you've been having?"

"Yes, it is."

"Tell me, then, so I can help you."

Charlie nodded, reluctantly. He was going to have to tell Rory what had happened -- some of it, anyway -- but he really didn't want to. But Rory's arms were solid and comforting around him, and if he had to tell him, it might as well be today.

"OK, I'll tell you, but I'm going to need a coffee."

"Get dressed then, and I'll put the kettle on."

Charlie nodded, and watched Rory leave the bedroom. He sat down heavily on the bed and buried his head in his hands, groaning to himself. This was not going to be fun and Rory was going to be angrier than he'd ever been in his life before, and it was all Charlie's fault. He'd been stupid and idiotic and reckless, and the only reason he wasn't dead right now was just luck, and maybe the intercession of a few saints, the ones who looked after stupid people who got themselves into trouble and couldn't get out.

After a few minutes, he dragged himself upright and pulled on his tracksuit pants and a jumper. The kettle whistled briefly as he headed down the stairs and he entered the kitchen just as Rory was adding milk to their drinks. It looked like Rory was drinking coffee this morning as well -- not generally a good sign.

The living room was gloomy in the dull winter light, but warm, and they settled on the sofa, their mugs on the table in front of them. Charlie curled his legs over Rory's and rested his head on his lover's shoulder.

"Are you all right?" asked Rory, putting his arms around him.

Charlie shrugged. "Just want to be close to you," he whispered.

"It's going to be bad, isn't it."

"Yeah, a bit."

"Worse than the other day?"

Charlie nodded.

"I'm not going to throw you out, I told you that." Rory tightened him arms around Charlie, and Charlie felt a light kiss on his forehead. He nuzzled deeper into Rory's shoulder, reassured, and took a deep breath.

"Right, well ... this guy Tuomi. He's Finnish, has some long bloody surname I could never remember. I met him back in April, I think. He was a friend of ... well, never mind. I met him at a party and I fancied him rotten. He was like a fucking Norse god, you know, tall and blond, amazing shoulders. We copped off a couple of times, at clubs, nothing fancy, just a quick fuck. I didn't think much of it, didn't think he fancied me much at all. I was just another fuck to him, maybe a bit more well-known than most. I ... I slept with a lot of people last year, can't even remember half of them."

Rory said nothing, and his face was expressionless. Charlie hurried on with his story.

"He was a dealer too -- I bought some stuff off him occasionally. High-grade shit, expensive, more than I could afford but it was bloody good while the money lasted. Anyway, I was bumming around after escaping from the rehab place -- God, that was awful, like bloody prison, you know. I stayed with some friends for a while but they weren't users, they couldn't understand that I needed a fix every day. They threw me out when they found I'd sold some of their stuff. Then I tried squatting for a bit ..." his voice trailed off as he pictured the dirt, the squalor, the total lack of hygiene. He gave himself a shake and went on. "That didn't work out either. I even tried staying with Sinjin but the git said he was leaving for the States and he wasn't going to let me have the run of house while he was away. Bastard. I'm glad I took his money."

"You took money from Sinjin?"

"Just a hundred quid, nothing he'd miss. Umm ... and a camera, a digital one. Only got fifty for that, though."

"Well, that explains the phone call."

"What?"

"He called me, a couple of months ago. He was fashed as hell, didn't really make much sense. I told him I hadn't seen you and he rang off."

Charlie bit his lip. Sinjin was a mean prick when he was angry, and Rory was a bastard when he was challenged -- it must have been quite an argument. "I guess I'd better add that to the list I gave you."

"Aye."

"Sorry, I'd forgotten about it."

"Just go on with your story, we'll sort it out later."

"OK. Well, I cadged entry to a party one night, not the sort of place I'd choose normally, but at least there was food and drink. I saw Tuomi there, talking to a couple of girls. I said hello, and we got chatting.

"He soon worked out I was down on my luck -- I spun him the sob story about people going away, and I couldn't get access to my gear. He invited me back to his place -- said I could doss there for a week or two. It seemed like a good idea -- not that I had many alternatives, but yeah, I didn't even think to check on him before I said yes.

"We got to his place, and we fucked, of course, and it was OK. Then he brought out some heroin, which was bloody fantastic as I was starting withdrawal. I guess he was used to spotting the signs by then.

"I stayed there two days, then he got a phone call and said he was going away for a bit and I had to leave. I had no money, I knew I wouldn't last the weekend without a hit, so I lifted a couple of things on my way out, took them to a pawnbroker, got a few quid and headed for another dealer. I'd done it before, you know, I knew it was risky, but I was absolutely skint."

He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing and his racing pulse. He really didn't want to go on, but Rory was holding him and expecting to hear the full story and he fucking _owed_ it to Rory to tell him, because if Tuomi ever found out where he had gone he'd be here on the doorstep and even though he knew Rory was a hard man, he wasn't sure that he'd back Rory over Tuomi if it came to a fight. Tuomi was nearly a foot taller and at least 20 kilos heavier, and Charlie knew first-hand just how strong he was. He had to tell Rory so that he could be ready.

"Go on," Rory murmured.

"Tuomi tracked me down about a week later, I was back in the squat. He beat the crap out of me, then said I had to make it up to him." He bit his lip. He _really_ didn't want to go on.

"How?" asked Rory, his voice soft but faintly menacing.

Charlie shrugged. "The usual. He wouldn't call the cops if I let him fuck me. He didn't say how long for -- I guessed a week or a month, but I didn't really care by then. I was fucking freezing my nuts off in the squat and I figured I could talk him into giving me the shit I needed. And ... well, I'd done it before, with you. I thought it wouldn't be so bad, you know." He shrugged again. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and swallowing a couple of times, trying to bring himself back under control.

"What happened next?"

"He took me back to the flat. He fucked me over the kitchen table, dry, pretty rough. I was bleeding afterwards, but he didn't care. Then he gave me a fix. I took it, and everything was rosy for a couple of minutes, but it must have been almost pure because it knocked me flat. Next thing I knew, I was in a bare room, my hands tied behind my back. He'd gagged me so I couldn't call out, and he'd taken all my clothes. I was fucking terrified."

Rory held him close and Charlie took a few moments to compose himself before going on. "I tried to get out, but the door was locked and the window was barred. He left me there for two fucking days. God only knows where he was, he never told me, but he wasn't in the flat. When he got back, I was well into withdrawal. I'd pissed myself and worse, and was trying to throw up around the gag. I think ... I think if he hadn't come back right then I might have choked."

"But you didn't."

"No." It might have been better if he had. He really didn't want to think about the days that had followed.

"What next?"

"He kept me there for a few days, might have been a week, I lost track of time. He gave me some water and a bit of heroin. Not much, not nearly enough to take me out of withdrawal, just enough to stop me throwing up. He liked making me beg for it. He really got off on being in control. A couple of times he gave me some food -- he removed the gag just long enough for me to have a few mouthfuls then put it back. He never untied my hands though. When he took me through to the bathroom to clean me up he tied me to the taps. Then he'd take me back and fuck me again.

"Then one morning the door didn't catch -- it was a spring lock, you know, with the keyhole on my side, so I couldn't open it. He'd come in to give me some water that morning, and he mustn't have closed it properly. When he left the flat, I just sat there for a while, then I realised that there was a bit of a gap between the door and the jamb. I pushed and it opened. I got out of the room, cut the rope with a kitchen knife, grabbed some clothes and a few coins he'd left on the table and got the hell out of there, fast. Walked around until I could get my bearings and then went to the train station. Some old duffer dropped a ticket in the gents -- I picked it up and he let me keep it, so I came back here."

There was a long pause. Charlie could feel Rory's body thrumming with suppressed fury, but there wasn't anything he could do about that right now except to hold onto him.

"How the fuck did he expect to get away with it? Surely he knew you'd talk about it."

Charlie swallowed. "I don't think ... I don't think I was supposed to leave."

He let the silence convey his meaning to Rory.

"He was going to kill you?"

"I think so. The things he said ... he never said out loud that he was going to kill me, but he told me every day that there was no escape, no way out. It just took me a little time to work it out. I guess I'm lucky the door didn't close that day, if it had been any later I would have been too weak to walk out of there."

He waited for Rory to ask him why he hadn't gone to the police, but the question never came. He should have known better, he realised. In Rory's world, you never called the police -- you dealt with it yourself. Only a woman or a weakling called the police.

When he looked up, Rory was red in the face and grinding his teeth so hard Charlie could hear it.

"I'm all right, Rory," he tried to reassure him. "I got away."

"Do you think he's looking for you?" Rory's voice was a growl.

"I don't know."

"He has to wonder if you'll talk."

"I guess. But would anyone believe me? I couldn't go to the police -- he looks respectable, he's got some high-paying job in the city. They'd never believe that he keeps people locked up in his flat. They'd probably arrest me, not him."

"Mmm." Rory was obviously thinking hard. "Well, it's been a few weeks now, he probably thinks he's safe."

"Probably thinks I'm dead."

They looked at each other, recognising that it had been a close-run thing. If Rory had been away that night, Charlie would probably have died of exposure.

Rory kissed him, hard and forcefully, as if to reassure himself that Charlie really was there with him. "Is he likely to turn up here?"

Charlie shrugged. "I've no idea. I hope not."

"Aye, well, we'll deal with that if it happens."

"Are you angry?"

"Not with you."

"I'm sorry I left you."

"I am too. But you came back, that's the important thing."

"And brought a whole heap of trouble back with me."

"Don't worry. Everything will be all right. I'll make sure of that."

Charlie recognised the determination in Rory's voice, and it comforted him. There had been times in the past when he had wished that Rory was anything other than what he was -- a Glasgow tough -- but right now he was profoundly thankful that he had a lover who could cope with the mess he'd caused. Rory would need all of his cunning and agility to deal with Tuomi if he found them, but Charlie was confident -- well, fairly confident -- that Rory would win any encounter.

He just hoped that Tuomi never found them.

  
 **3.3 -- Friendship**

_Friday 23rd January 2004_

Charlie sat on the kitchen bench with his knees tucked under his chin, looking out into the grounds. Even the grass looked dull and unenthusiastic, while the rotting remnants of autumn's fallen leaves shone dark and slick. The rain suited his mood. The weather was cold and miserable and showed no sign of improving in the next week.

He hated the short days, when the clouds closed in claustrophobically and the sun had to be taken on faith. He hated sitting here on his own, waiting for Rory to come home from work, waiting for life to start again.

He wished they could go somewhere warm, but they couldn't, not while he was on methadone. Oh, they might be able to get a script for a fortnight's-worth, or find a reciprocal programme, but the paperwork was horrendous -- he'd looked it up on the net. And there was always the chance that the customs people would confiscate the methadone, which gave him the shivers just to think of it. And so Rory had decreed -- no overseas trips for either of them until Charlie was weaned off and clean.

Charlie sighed. That could take years.

At least Rory had had the sensitivity to say he wouldn't leave the country without Charlie. It was a consideration he didn't really deserve, after all the times he'd gone on tour with the band and left Rory to sit at home and drink and brood. And, as often as he'd thought of Rory on tour, there were plenty of times when he hadn't, when he'd been drunk or high on heroin, when he'd been partying and schmoozing and letting pretty boys and girls suck his cock. Not to mention the last year, when he'd slept with anyone who had taken his fancy.

He dropped his face into his hands. Telling everything to Rory had been almost more than he could bear, but at least he'd done it. Rory had pursed his lips so tightly they'd been a thin white line, but he hadn't said anything, not then, and that had almost been worse because Charlie knew that Rory was having to exert such self-control only because he'd stuffed up again.

Maybe he should run away. Maybe he should sneak out into the night and find a bridge to jump off and put an end to the misery. He'd been nothing but trouble and heartbreak since the day he'd left school, and he'd hurt his family, his friends and his lover. He was a disgrace to them all. He couldn't even go to confession and get absolution for what he'd done, because all the Hail Marys and penances in the world couldn't change what he was -- and the Church considered him and his kind as an abomination.

He dropped his forehead to the glass and tried to ignore the tear that was trickling down his cheek. He was such a failure. He'd never done anything right since he was a kid. He should just go -- somewhere, anywhere -- go, disappear, leave without a trace. They'd be upset, of course, but not for long. His friends would move on, his family would remember him on his saint's day, and Rory -- well, Rory would throw a few curses in his direction and then go back to Scotland and turn straight and get married and have beautiful babies.

No one really needed him. No one needed the trouble he brought with him. No one really wanted him ...

The door slammed and he heard Rory calling out, "Charlie, where are you?"

"I -- I'm here," he managed to croak. He scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his jumper, hoping to erase the evidence.

Rory hurried into the kitchen and turned on the light, banishing the early gloom. His hair and jacket were speckled with raindrops that glittered in the light.

"What are you doing up there?" he asked, astonished. Then seeing Charlie's face, he strode forward. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

Charlie couldn't speak, his throat was too tight. He shook his head and wriggled forward on the bench so that he could get down. The moment he felt Rory's arms around him and Rory's breath ghosting down his neck, all his fear seemed to fall away like dust.

"You're early," he choked out.

Rory kissed his cheek. "Couldn't stand to be away from you a moment longer. Just left everything and walked out."

Charlie stared. Rory never left the office without locking everything away.

Rory shuffled and looked away. "OK, so I threw some papers in the drawer, just in case some nosey parker dropped in. But I did hurry back."

Charlie smiled in spite of himself. "That sounds more like it."

"So," Rory pulled back and cupped Charlie's face, looking him in the eye. "What's wrong?" He brushed the slight wetness away with his thumb. "You were crying?"

"Just got bit down, that's all. It's been raining all day, and I couldn't go out for a walk, and everything just got a bit much."

"Just as well I came back early, then"

"Yeah, just as well." Charlie relaxed into Rory's embrace, trying to soak up all the warmth and reassurance he could. He buried his head into Rory's shoulder and inhaled his lover's scent, drinking in the reassurance of his presence, feeling Rory's arms rubbing his back soothingly.

"Are you all right now?" asked Rory, softly.

Charlie nodded, but he didn't move. It was another minute or two before he felt sufficiently himself again to straighten up and kiss Rory on the mouth. "Thanks."

Rory kissed him back and ran his hands through Charlie's curls. "Come on, I'll put the kettle on. We'll have a cup of tea and then work out what we're going to do this weekend."

"You mean, apart from the methadone."

"And the sex."

"There's going to be sex?"

"Only if you're good."

"I'm always good. Like a little angel."

Rory cocked his head to one side and looked at Charlie, who maintained his air of virtuous innocence for a few seconds longer and then collapsed into giggles.

"You can always make me laugh," he said fondly. "I needed that."

Rory grinned back. "So what else are we going to do?" he asked, reaching for the mugs.

"Oh, I don't know. You choose."

"We could always squeeze in a bit more sex."

"Do you ever think of anything else?"

"Not when you're in the room, no," Rory growled, and gave Charlie's neck a gentle bite. "Now put the kettle on or take your clothes off. Your choice."

Charlie shook his head in bemusement. How could he ever have doubted Rory's love? He leaned forward and kissed him, deeply and passionately, his hands fumbling for the buckle on Rory's belt.

Tea could wait.

  
 _Sunday 25th January, 10.30 am_

Normally, Charlie loved Sunday mornings. He and Rory would drink their coffee in bed and then make love and snooze again, only dragging themselves down to have lunch when they got hungry. After that they would relax on the sofa, reading the papers, or watching TV, snuggling up to each other and maybe teasing each other into another round of shagging. They might even go out to a pub or the cinema before coming back home to eat and sleep and shag some more. That was his idea of a perfect Sunday.

Not today though, he reminded himself. Today was going to be very different and a lot less comfortable -- his mother had invited them over for lunch again, and that meant that they had to get showered and dressed very shortly. There was no time for slow, languorous love-making followed by an energy-restoring nap; no leisurely reading of papers or teasing touches. Instead there would be polite stilted conversation (if his father was in a good mood) or, more likely, snide comments progressing inexorably to arguments.

He really didn't want to go there today.

He summoned up a smile when Rory came back up the stairs, though, and took the mug of coffee. It was rich and sweet, with cream in it instead of milk.

"Still trying to fatten me up?" he asked with a sly smile.

"Aye, you're still too thin."

"I must have put on at least five kilos since I've been back. I really need to go running."

"Wait until the weather is a bit better. You've only just stopped your antibiotics, you don't want to get another infection."

"True."

Rory sat on the bed and drank his tea. "What time are we due there?"

"Twelve-thirty. Lunch will be at one, I guess."

Rory looked at his watch. "Ninety minutes then."

Charlie grimaced. "Don't want to go."

Rory looked at him, concerned. "Are you all right? I can ring Meg and say you're not well."

Charlie shook his head. "No, better get it over and done with. She'd only come over here to check up on me anyway."

Rory sighed. "I was looking forward to a nice, relaxing Sunday with you."

"Me too." He reached out a hand and stroked Rory's cheek.

Rory smiled at him. "We'll relax when we get back."

"Mmm, definitely."

"So finish your coffee and get into the shower."

"Scrub my back?"

"Not today or we'll never make it to lunch."

"Spoilsport." Charlie grinned to show he didn't really mean it, and drained his coffee.

~~~~~

An hour and a half later, Charlie was almost praying as Rory he drove them the short distance to the Pace home. He had too many memories of arguments and bitterness around the table to be looking forward to it. Mum would be fine, he knew that, but he was never sure about his father, and he knew that Rory wasn't exactly in the mood to be conciliating if -- when -- his father started pontificating about some issue or other.

"All right there?" asked Rory.

"Yeah, just hoping Dad's in a good mood."

"He'd better be."

"Don't set him off, please. I couldn't stand it, not today."

Rory grunted. "I'll behave if he will."

"Please?"

"Look, Charlie, I'll be pleasant and polite and do my best to keep the conversation going, but I'm not going to sit and do nothing if he starts off on another anti-gay, anti-drugs tirade. You're not well yet, I won't have your recovery set back because of his stupid prejudices. I mean it. One bitter word out of him and I'll have you out of there before he can draw another breath. "

"My hero." Charlie couldn't help smiling and the thought of Rory acting as his knight in shining armour. Any other time he'd find it annoying, but right now he needed it. He had always been hopeless at ignoring his father's insults, and to be honest, he had to admit that there was no way he would be going to lunch without the very solid presence of his lover to back him up.

Rory reddened a little. "Well, he bullies you. I won't have that."

"I know. And I don't think he will, not today. Mum will have put the fear of God into him."

"I hope so."

As it turned out, Charlie's fears were largely unfounded. Mike was on his best behaviour, and reserved his animosity for the UK government's reckless waste of tax-payers' money in funding an inquest into the death of Diana, Princess of Wales.

"Conspiracy theories, my arse," he grumbled. "Speeding and drink-driving, that's all it was. If people had the sense they were born with they'd know that. No need for this bloody circus of an inquest."

"Language, Mike," Meg chided him. "I just hope that the two young princes aren't too upset. It must be very unpleasant for them, seeing their mother's name all over the papers again."

"If they've got any sense they'll be avoiding all the media until it's over."

"Well, let's hope they manage to do that. Now, Rory dear, would you like gravy or mint sauce or both?"

"I'll have both, thanks, Meg. It's ages since I had a roast."

"Well it's not very economical for just the two of you, is it?" she smiled. "You need at least four to make it worth while. I have to admit I don't do a roast every Sunday now, not with Kevin being the only one at home."

There were only the five of them at the meal: Charlie and Rory, Meg, Mike and Kevin. Most of the time was spent in catching up with all that had happened in the family in the year he'd been out of touch.

"Tess is still at St Thomas's," Meg told him with a happy smile. "She was very lucky, she got Christmas off, so she came home for a couple of days. It was lovely to see her. She's working on the medical ward at the moment, but she's hoping to transfer to paediatrics soon."

"That would be interesting."

"She's not sure whether to go for paediatrics or midwifery as her second certificate, but I told her that a couple of years' experience on the general wards will stand her in good stead. It's no good trying to specialise too soon."

"Is she going to stay in London?"

"I think so, at least for the time being. Her boyfriend works at the hospital too, and of course she's still sharing a flat with Susan and another girl."

"Boyfriend?"

"Yes, his name's Luke. We haven't met him, but Tess said they've been going out for a few months."

"Good for her."

"He sounds like a nice boy."

"I hope she's not bossing him around too much."

"Now, Charlie, don't be nasty."

"I'm not being nasty. She's always been bossy."

Kevin nodded his agreement. "She was always telling me off when she lived here."

Charlie gave his youngest brother a sympathetic grin. "Me too. She could boss for Britain."

"Charlie, that's enough."

"All right, Mum." He grinned and changed the subject. "What about Biddy? Is she still in Europe?"

"Yes, I had an email from her yesterday. She's going skiing with some friends this weekend, she told me -- one of her friends has access to a lodge near Verbier. She promised she'd stick to the beginners' slopes, though."

"Sounds like fun."

"Yes, she's having a wonderful time in Switzerland, and she says her language skills are definitely improving. She's a little worried about her accent, though, she doesn't want to pick up too much of a Swiss accent as it will bring her marks down in the oral."

"I don't think she has much to worry about."

"No, I'm sure she'll do well. And she has another year back at Oxford to sort things out if she needs to."

"Did she make it home for Christmas?"

"No, the Kochs -- that's her host family -- invited her to stay with them, and she thought it was a good idea to see how the Swiss celebrate it first-hand. Plus it meant she didn't have to pay for the train -- I think she's getting a little worried about money, everything is so expensive over there."

"She'll manage. She always does."

"She does. And she's already looking for jobs there, she said she would like to work in Europe when she finishes her degree next year. She's hoping for something at the United Nations, or the World Trade Organisation, but I think she might have to start somewhere smaller."

"Well, there are plenty of firms that need translators."

"Oh yes. And she doesn't have to stay in Europe, there are plenty of translating jobs here, I'm sure. Even in Manchester."

Privately, Charlie suspected that Biddy's job plans specifically excluded Manchester, but he wasn't going to spoil the mood by saying so. Instead, and quite heroically, he inquired about Liam.

"Liam's doing very well. He's still working for Karen's father, and they have a nice house somewhere in Sydney. Where did he say it was, Mike?"

Mike shrugged. "Something Cove, I think."

"Lane Cove, that's it. Only one storey, he said -- well, most Australian houses are bungalows -- but it has three bedrooms and a bit of a garden for Megan to play in. He sent us a video at Christmas, he's been filming her a lot now that she's walking. I'll put it on after we've finished lunch; it's not long, but it does show how much she's grown."

"Thanks, that will be great."

After further bulletins on the progress of Aunt Bridie, Uncle Jim and various cousins, Charlie felt that the topic of family had been exhausted. Luckily Rory managed to keep the conversation going by asking Mike how the business was going.

"Well, it's a difficult time of year, of course," Mike replied. "It's hard to keep up a production schedule when you don't know if half your staff are going to turn up or ring in sick. But we're getting by."

"Aye, the flu makes everything worse. Luckily I have a small pool of casuals I can call on if I need to."

"I can't use casuals -- not for the skilled jobs, anyway. Though there are one or two retirees who can help out, they're always glad of a couple of days' pay."

"Cash?"

Mike grunted. "Of course. No sense in doing all that paperwork."

Rory nodded, and Charlie experienced a moment of surreality as he viewed Mike and Rory agreeing on the best way to cheat the Inland Revenue.

Meg brought him back into the real world by pressing them to eat more. "Rory, would you like any more potatoes? Or another slice of lamb?"

"No thanks, Meg. A wee birdie told me that there was sticky date pudding in the oven, and I have to leave some room for that."

Charlie brightened. "My favourite!"

Meg pretended to be annoyed. "It was supposed to be a surprise, dear."

Charlie grinned. "I don't mind. I'd have smelled it as soon as you opened the oven door anyway."

"Finish your meat, then dear, or there'll be none for you."

He rolled his eyes at that, but finished the rest of his roast beef and set the knife and fork down with a flourish.

Meg smiled, and took his plate away with the others, returning with a large dish containing the promised pudding. It looked and smelled delicious, and was accompanied by rich vanilla custard. It tasted delicious, too.

They moved through to the lounge to drink their tea and coffee, relaxing on the sofa and enjoying the warmth.

"Oh, before I forget," said Meg suddenly, "I had a phone call from Stephanie Gleason during the week. You know they moved up to Blackburn when David retired?"

"I knew they'd moved, but I didn't know where," replied Charlie.

"Well, they have a bungalow in a quiet cul-de-sac, close to the shops and there's a bus at the end of the street that takes them right into town."

"Sounds very nice."

"It is, but the reason I mentioned it is because I asked her for Pat's phone number, and she gave it to me. I thought you might like to call him."

Charlie thought about that. "I don't know," he said at last.

"He's your best friend, Charlie. You've been friends since you were nine years old."

"I know that, but ... well, we didn't part on good terms. And I didn't go to his wedding. He was furious about that. So was Melissa."

Meg nodded. "Yes, she told me all that. But it was a year ago, now, and I'm sure he'd love to hear from you."

Charlie wasn't so sure. He had been so completely caught up in his own affairs that he hadn't even realised he'd missed the wedding until a month later, and when he'd tried to explain things, Pat had been uncharacteristically angry. They had ended up arguing and shouting at each other, and hadn't spoken since.

Would Pat forgive him now? Would Melissa? Pat was his oldest friend, and rarely carried a grudge, but Charlie had hurt him badly, he knew. Would he really be willing to resume their friendship?

Rory touched his shoulder. "It can't hurt to call him," he said softly.

Charlie wasn't convinced, but he took the piece of paper his mother gave him, and put it carefully in his pocket. "I'll think about it," he said.

Later, once they were home and settled in the living room, he took the piece of paper out and looked at it, biting his lip as he considered what to do.

"Do you think I ought to call him?" he asked.

Rory shrugged. "He's your friend."

"I know, but ... he's going to be angry with me."

"So let him be angry and get it off his chest, tell him you're sorry, and ask him to forgive you."

"What if he doesn't?"

"He will. Pat's not vindictive like those other two pricks. He won't hold a grudge."

"You sure?"

Rory sighed. He picked up the phone, dialled the number and handed it to Charlie. "Talk to him. I'll make some tea."

Charlie panicked for a moment, but took the handset. A distorted but familiar voice answered, and Charlie cleared his throat and said, "Pat? It's me, Charlie."

"Oh." The voice was guarded, non-committal.

"Mum gave me your number, she said she got it off your mum. Umm ... I guess I'm calling to say I'm sorry about last year. I'm sorry I missed the wedding, I didn't even think about it until I saw it in the papers, and then I figured it was too late. I hope I didn't stuff things up too badly for you."

There was a bit of a pause, then Pat said, "I got my cousin Robert to stand in, I don't think you've met him."

"No, but I'm glad you had someone. It was a shitty thing to do, and I'm sorry."

"I guess you weren't really yourself."

"No, I wasn't."

"Are you OK now?"

Charlie smiled. Trust Pat to still be concerned about him. "Yeah, I'm fine. Back in Manchester, back with Rory."

"That's good. I'm glad you're back together."

"So am I. And I'm on methadone again, but a different doctor, this one really knows what she's doing. And I'm starting therapy next month, so it's all going to be sorted out."

"Good."

"So how are things with you? What are you working on? And how is Melissa?"

He heard Pat laugh. "Mel's fine. She's pregnant, actually -- due the week after Easter."

"Really? That's fantastic. I'm really happy for you."

"Yeah, we're really happy about it too. It was a bit of a shock at first -- we hadn't planned it -- but we've got things sorted now and I'm really looking forward to it."

"Girl or boy?"

"Umm ... well, we know, but we're not telling anyone, not even our parents."

"Top secret, eh?"

"Absolutely."

"OK, I won't pester you. So, how's work going?"

"Slow. I'm getting by though. I've been doing some session work, and some jamming with a few friends. Looking at a few things for the summer. And ... well, I've got a regular spot with a couple of mates doing advertising jingles for an agency."

"Christ, don't let Sinjin hear that, he'll go apeshit."

"It's none of his fucking business."

Was it Charlie's imagination, or did Pat sound a bit defensive? "It's OK, mate, I understand. You've got family now, you need to bring home a few quid every week.

"Yeah, I do. Mel's been working, but of course she's going to have to give up for a while. She's talking about going back part-time, but we'll have to work it out with my sessions or we'll end up just spending all her wages on child care."

They chatted on for a while, until Rory came back with a mug of coffee and set it down on the table. Charlie smiled up at him, and brought the conversation to a close.

"Yeah, sure we will. That would be great. And ... well, thanks, you know ... for still talking to me. Tell Melissa I'm sorry."

"I will. And we'll catch up soon."

"Yeah, we will. Anyway, I'd better go now, let you get back to her. Bye."

He put the phone down and turned to Rory. "Did you know that Melissa has a baby due at Easter?"

"No," answered Rory, setting his mug of tea down on the table and sitting down beside Charlie. "I haven't talked to Pat since ... well, since Liam's wedding. He was your friend, really, not mine."

"I suppose so. But he's a good guy, you know. He said he's forgiven me for skipping the wedding."

"What about Melissa?"

"I think she's still a bit angry with me. I can't blame her, really, Pat said he had to find a new best man in a hurry when he realised I wasn't going to show."

"That wouldn't have been easy."

"No, but at least he had several cousins to choose from."

"So are you going to see him?"

"Maybe. He said he'd be up this way in a couple of weeks, to see his parents, and he'd call in."

"Good."

"Yeah, but ... what if he changes his mind? What if Melissa doesn't let him?" The confidence that Charlie had felt just moments earlier was already evaporating.

"Do you really think he's going to let Melissa stop him if he wants to see you?"

Charlie shrugged again. "I don't know. I was such a prick to him. I was such a prick to everyone."

"You were a fucking bastard to everyone," corrected Rory.

"I'm sorry," he said again. He felt as if he would never finish saying sorry.

Rory leaned over and kissed him. "It's all right, eejit. At least you realise it now. Some people never do."

"Yeah, I guess."

"So, stop worrying about it and drink your coffee."

Charlie laughed, and picked up his mug.

  
 **3.4 -- Differences**

_Monday 26th January 2004 7am_

The alarm went off at seven, the harsh tone causing Charlie to frown and burrow his head under the pillow. He'd already been awake for some minutes, but that didn't make the alarm any less ear-splitting.

This waking early was getting to be far too much of a habit, he thought to himself, even when it wasn't the methadone withdrawal that pulled him out of dark dreams, or Rory snoring softly in his ear.

He smiled to himself. Funny to think that he'd complained about it often enough, and yet in the year he'd been away it had been one of the things he'd craved the most -- to be woken by Rory's snoring rather than by cold or hunger or nightmares; to wake and be able to touch the man he loved.

He heard Rory snuffle and cough as he woke, and snuggled close, dropping a kiss onto a patch of warm skin that lay conveniently close to his mouth. He wished that they could lie there all day, snug and warm, just the two of them. But there was the trip to the chemist, and then Rory would go to work, and Charlie would be left on his own until Rory came home again. It was all too awful to think about, and so he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep for a few more precious moments.

Rory had other ideas, and pulled himself out of Charlie's arms to stand up. Charlie kept his eyes firmly closed and wriggled into the warmth that Rory had left behind.

"Time to get up, Charlie."

Charlie listened to Rory moving around the room and thought about getting up. He wasn't keen on the idea at all, since the room wasn't all that warm and he was naked under the duvet with a morning erection still to be dealt with. He had to get up at some stage -- he had methadone to get and the doctor to visit -- but there was no urgency. Maybe just a few more minutes ... it was so warm in bed ...

"Charlie, get up."

"Mmm."

He'd said that at least three times this morning already. Sooner or later Rory was going to lose patience.

"Charlie, if you don't get up now I'll drag your fucking backside out of bed and into the car just as you are."

That sounded a bit more serious, but the duvet was still warm, and the room was still cold. He heard Rory come around the bed and burrowed deeper under the covers. Perhaps, if he stayed very still, Rory wouldn't see him.

The duvet was flung back and Charlie yelped as the cold air hit him. A strong hand grasped his ankle and dragged him out of the bed, eliciting another yelp as he hit the floor. He had no time to voice a complaint, as the next thing he knew, he'd been picked up and thrown against the wall. He blinked and found himself held by the throat, nose to nose with Rory.

He should have been angry, or perhaps afraid, but instead he felt that little tingle in his gut, that thrill of being manhandled, and he shivered with anticipation. He knew that Rory felt it too: he saw the intake of breath and the green eyes glittering like emeralds. He stopped struggling and tilted his head back against the wall, keeping his eyes locked with Rory's.

"Oh yeah?" he breathed, then touched his tongue to his bottom lip, provocatively, wondering what sort of reaction it would elicit.

Rory slammed his mouth down and Charlie felt his mouth being ravaged. His erection, which had barely begun to wilt in the cold, revived immediately and he pulled Rory's hips in to press against his own. It felt so good to be held again, to be pushed and pulled without the fear of it going too far. He opened himself up to his lover in exultation.

Rory pulled him away from the wall and threw him back down on the bed. Charlie lay sprawled over the sheets, his legs splayed open and his cock standing up and swaying slightly with each breath. He kept his eyes on Rory, but reached down with one hand and gave himself a leisurely stroke, then another, trailing his fingers from base to tip and rubbing one finger over the slit.

Rory growled and shed his trousers in record time. Charlie grabbed the lubricant from the top of the bedside table and Rory grabbed a condom, and in less time than it took to count to ten Rory was pushing inside Charlie's arse, stretching and filling and thrusting and hurting him so wonderfully. It was rough and ready, forceful and demanding, and in almost no time at all Rory shuddered and climaxed. Charlie gave himself a few more strokes and spurted into his fist before letting himself relax.

Rory pulled out and rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"God, that was good," Charlie sighed. "It's been a long time since I've been fucked that hard."

Rory didn't say anything, just looked away, to the other side of the room. He pulled the condom off his flaccid cock and threw it in the bin, then walked through to the bathroom to clean himself up.

Charlie lay on the bed, wondering what he'd done wrong this time. Well, apart from not getting up. That was different -- that was normal. This was more like Rory had been when they first got together, when he never knew what Rory was thinking.

He grabbed a tissue and wiped the mess off his skin, then hauled himself out of bed and followed Rory, who was washing himself with single-minded concentration, not letting his eyes deviate from his task. An onlooker might have thought that Rory hadn't seen Charlie come in, but Charlie knew better. Rory was ignoring him, and he had to find out why.

He put his arms around Rory's waist and kissed the back of his neck, then his shoulder. He refused to let Rory shrug him off -- though Rory was more than capable of throwing him off if he really wanted to -- and simply kept on pressing gentle kisses to whatever part of Rory he could reach.

Finally, he felt the tension in Rory's shoulders start to ease, and risked looking at their reflection in the mirror. Rory was looking at him with a worried, puzzled expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Rory took a breath, visibly gathering up the courage to say what was on his mind. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry. Was good."

"For before ... throwing you around."

"It's OK." Charlie smiled at the mirror image of his lover. "I liked it. I love it when you get all masterful. Though I think I bruised my bum when I landed on the floor. You're going to have to massage that for me tonight."

Rory was silent for a few seconds. His hand came up and rubbed the arm that Charlie had wrapped around his waist. "I thought you said you didn't like it. The other guy tried to control you and you hated it."

"Eh? That was different."

"Don't see how."

Charlie looked at Rory's reflection, seeing the tense and unhappy expression. "Have you been holding back all this time because I told you about Tuomi?" When Rory didn't answer, Charlie gave and exasperated laugh. "You great numptie. It's totally different."

"I forced you. He forced you. How is that different?"

"Well, it is." He thought about it for a moment. "I can't explain it. I _know_ why, I just can't put it into words." He shrugged. "It just is."

His stomach growled, and they grinned. "I think I'd better get showered and dressed and have some breakfast before we go out."

Rory turned around and sniffed him. "You'd better. Stinky boy." He sounded a little more normal, and Charlie laughed.

"And whose fault is that? You're the one who pounced on me. I didn't stand a chance. Scout's honour." He smiled and kissed Rory earnestly on the mouth. "And, just so we're absolutely crystal clear, I like being pounced on by you."

Rory smiled -- almost shyly, thought Charlie. "You do?"

"I do. And if you ever hurt me, I'll tell you. I promise."

Rory nodded. Charlie looked at him closely, but he didn't seem too defensive—no more than usual, anyway, so he continued, "And you have to tell me if I hurt you."

Rory looked up, surprised.

"You're so ... secretive about things. I still don't know what you're thinking half the time. You have to open up a bit, let me in, tell me how you feel."

Rory nodded again.

"So," he gave a sly smile, "why don't you come back to bed? I'll clean myself up and then I'll give you a backrub."

Rory shook his head. "I have to take you to the chemist."

"Bugger. Almost had you," Charlie pouted, but only half-seriously—he hadn't really expected Rory to forget.

"You can have me tonight, instead."

"Really?" Charlie felt his face light up, saw it reflected in Rory's eyes, and tightened his arms. He never liked to ask, he never wanted to push Rory into doing something he wasn't comfortable with, but he loved it when Rory offered to bottom. "God, I'm getting hard already."

"No time, Charlie. Get yourself into the shower." Rory gave him a swat on the backside and Charlie grinned. Another disaster averted. They were getting almost good at this communicating stuff.

~~~~~

Later, after Rory had taken dropped him back home with the daily paper and a couple of magazines to read, he thought about what had happened that morning. The difference between the two men was huge, even if he couldn't explain it adequately. It wasn't just that he was in love with Rory and he'd never been in love with Tuomi. He'd slept with a fair few guys during the years, both before he'd met Rory and during the year they'd been apart. He'd had good sex and bad sex and sex he'd barely noticed. He'd topped and he'd bottomed and he'd sucked cocks and been sucked in turn. He'd even fucked women, a couple of times, when the girls had been crawling all over him, and it had been too much effort to say no.

The fans had wanted him because he was a rock star. Rory had wanted him because he loved him. Tuomi ... Tuomi was different. Tuomi hadn't wanted him at all, not really, he'd just wanted a fuck and Charlie had been there and hadn't objected. Not the first time, anyway. After Tuomi had found him and accused him of stealing, he hadn't had the option.

When Rory had taken him for a month, it was because Rory had wanted him desperately and the arrangement had merely been a cover story so that he could keep Charlie close to him. Not that he had ever admitted as much, of course, but Charlie had sensed it; had known instinctively that there was a strong mutual attraction, and he'd been right.

When Tuomi had taken him for a month, it had been punishment and degradation, pure and simple. All Tuomi had cared about was controlling him, humiliating him and hurting him. He'd enjoyed having a fuck-toy that he could use and abuse without fear of complaint or consequence. There had been no care or affection on either side.

When Rory exerted his control, Charlie knew that there was a reason for it, and even when he didn't agree with it, he knew it was there and most of the time he knew what it was. Rory didn't order him about for the fun of it. He had never done that, even when Charlie had been his rent boy -- every order, every action had a purpose, a goal. Even the violence that Rory had used in his job was just enough for the purpose of extracting money from defaulting clients. Rory didn't enjoy pain or suffering for its own sake.

Tuomi was different.

Tuomi had been a sadistic bastard. He enjoyed pain for its own sake. Charlie should have seen that, should have sensed it, but he hadn't, and because of that he'd been raped and beaten and if he hadn't had the good luck to escape he'd be well and truly dead by now.

He shuddered, and decided that he'd had enough of sitting and thinking. He put the radio on and started singing along as he changed the sheets and put a load of laundry in the washing machine. He'd think about it again later, if he had to.

~~~~~

When Rory got home, Charlie was busy adding dumplings to the beef casserole that had been cooking slowly during the afternoon. The delicious smell filled the flat, and he smiled as Rory sniffed the air appreciatively.

"Hello beautiful," said Charlie, leaning into Rory's kiss. "I thought you might like something warm for dinner."

"Mmm," Rory nuzzled at his neck, "I think you may be right."

"It'll be about fifteen minutes if you want to go up and change."

"Aye, I will."

He watched Rory's delectable backside leave the room, and then put the plates in to warm.

Rory was back in just a few minutes, in tracksuit pants and a sweater, a glass of whisky in his hand. He sat down at the small table while Charlie put the vegetables in the microwave and set out the cutlery. It didn't take long to serve, and then there was an appreciative silence as they did justice to the meal.

"That was good," Rory mumbled as he mopped up the last of the gravy with a slice of bread.

Charlie gave him an amused look. "I think I'm going to have to start making you a packed lunch every morning."

Rory shook his head. "I had lunch. Was just hungry."

"Just as well there's some apple pie left from yesterday then."

Rory nodded. "I like your pies."

"I know you do." He dropped a kiss on his lover's cheek as he cleared away the plates. "Go and sit in the warm and I'll bring it through."

Rory left, and Charlie prepared the apple pie, along with tea for Rory and coffee for himself, taking them through to the living room. Rory was skimming through the TV guide, but there was nothing that they particularly wanted to watch, so Charlie broached the topic that been held over from the morning.

"I spent most of the day thinking," he began.

Rory faced closed over. "About what happened this morning?"

"Yes." Charlie paused, not sure how to go on. "I'm still not sure I've got it right, and I don't know that I can put it into words, not properly."

"Maybe you don't need to, then."

"No, I do. It's important to me."

Rory sipped his tea and waited.

Charlie took a couple of minutes to marshal his thoughts. "You care about me," he said, eventually. "It doesn't matter whether it's fast or slow, rough or gentle. I know you love me and you care what happens to me."

Rory nodded and set his cup down.

"And I love you too, in case you were wondering," Charlie added with a grin, tilting Rory's chin up and dropping a kiss his lips.

"That's good," Rory smiled at him, and Charlie was tempted to abandon the conversation and drag him upstairs to bed right now. But that would just put things off and he wanted to get this over with.

"Tuomi didn't care about me at all, except to hurt me. He really got off on seeing me in pain, seeing me helpless. He's a heartless bastard, you know. I sort of sensed that the first time I met him, but I just wanted a good fuck, I didn't think it mattered."

"Did he hurt you the first time?"

"No ... he wasn't gentle, but then I didn't want gentle. And it was in a club, and people had seen us chatting, so it wasn't like he could do much." He shrugged. "I knew there was a risk when he offered me a place to stay, but I was pretty desperate, and I figured I could always leave if I didn't like it. I thought I could handle him if he got too rough. Even when he was angry, when he told me I owed him, I thought it would be manageable. I didn't count on being tied up in a locked room."

He shivered at the memory, and was grateful for Rory's arms around him. Rory was his one constant, his anchor, his support and his reason for living, and he was pathetically grateful that he had been given a second chance to be happy with him.

Something of the sort must have shown in his face, because Rory was looking concerned.

"It's all right," he said, "I'm fine now, really."

"You're safe with me, you know that."

"I know. I do, I really feel safe with you. I always felt safe with you -- well, maybe not the first week or so, but after that, yeah."

"I'm sorry." Rory looked a bit uncomfortable at the mention of that first month together.

Charlie laughed. "It's all right. It just took us a while to stop pretending we didn't like each other."

Rory smiled. "I wanted you the first moment I saw you, you know."

"Really?"

"Really. It's never happened to me before."

"I wanted you too." There was a long pause while Charlie straddled Rory's hips and kissed him thoroughly. Finally he broke off. "Look, that's what I've been trying to say. You wanted me, you cared about me, right from the very beginning. And I know you hit me once or twice, but it wasn't like you got a thrill out of it. It was just business."

Rory looked uncomfortable. "Last year wasn't business," he said in a low voice.

"What?" Charlie had a moment of confusion until he remembered the violent argument they'd had the night he'd walked put. "Oh, that. That was different, too. I know I said some fucking awful things to you. I'm sorry about that. But I'm not blaming you for losing your temper. Fuck, I lose mine often enough."

He kissed Rory again. "I love it when you're gentle with me, I do. But I also love it when you're a bit wild, like this morning. It's all good."

Rory looked only slightly reassured, and Charlie tried again. "With you ... with you I know that you see me -- Charlie -- and you're doing things to me because it's going to feel really good for both of us. And even when you're being rough you're always careful not to damage me. I never have to worry about that when I'm with you. And ... and I know if I asked you to, you'd stop, only I never need to."

Charlie took one of Rory's hands and kissed the palm. "Seriously, love, when I'm with you I always feel safe. You care about me. It doesn't matter if you're a bit forceful, I know you don't ever intend to hurt me. I trust you. Yeah, that's it ... I trust you. I never trusted him. I never felt safe with him."

"You trust me."

"Yes, I trust you."

They looked at each other, and Charlie sensed vaguely that they'd said something more significant than the words suggested. He looked down into Rory's face, seeing the slightly puzzled look there. He ran his thumb gently over Rory's lips, watching as they relaxed and then parted. He bent his head and kissed them, trying to show Rory how much he loved him.

The kiss deepened, and Charlie felt his cock straining against his jeans. He was pressing against Rory's groin, feeling the answering response there, and not even the thought of taking Rory upstairs and fucking him could make him pull away. He was lost in the pleasure of the moment, and Rory was his universe.

It was Rory who broke the kiss, strong Rory, clever Rory, his wonderful and masterful lover. He pushed Charlie away and stood up. "Bed. Now," he said, his eyes dark with lust and passion, his lips swollen, his cheeks flushed.

Charlie had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He clambered to his feet but couldn't walk past his lover, instead claiming another kiss, and then another.

It was Rory who manoeuvred them through the door and up the stairs, and Rory who managed to get Charlie undressed before he even realised that he was naked. He came to some semblance of consciousness when Rory stepped back to remove his own clothing, and watched as his lover's body was revealed to him.

Rory stepped out of his track pants and pushed Charlie down onto the bed, covering him with his own body and kissing him with a passion that matched Charlie's own, until Charlie remembered that he was supposed to be topping and rolled them both over so that he was looking down at Rory's face.

"You remember what you said this morning?" he asked.

Rory nodded.

Charlie smiled down at him. "I want you so much," he whispered, dropping soft kisses onto Rory's neck and shoulders.

"You have me," Rory whispered back.

Charlie reached into the drawer for lubricant and a condom, setting them beside Rory's hips, and then started a thorough and methodical exploration of Rory's body, kissing and caressing every inch that he could reach. Every sense was intoxicated -- he could smell Rory's scent, growing stronger as he became aroused; he could hear the catch of breath when he touched a sensitive spot; he could taste the faint salt and tang of Rory's sweat when he licked the pale skin of his abdomen; he could see Rory laid out before him, responding to every touch; and he could feel Rory yielding to him as he opened his legs and inserted a lube-coated finger inside.

He took his time, making sure that Rory was fully stretched, before he reached for the condom and rolled it over his cock, which was so hard by now it was almost aching.

"On your back or on your front?" he asked.

"On my front."

Charlie grabbed a pillow and turned him over, making sure that he was comfortable and taking the opportunity to place a few kisses over the small of his back and each of his delightfully-rounded buttocks, before applying more lube to his cock. He knelt between Rory's thighs and placed his cock at the entrance, rubbing the tip over the puckered skin until they were both panting.

"Come on," breathed Rory, pushing back. "I want this."

Charlie needed no further encouragement, and pushed forward, broaching his lover with care, easing himself in slowly until he was fully buried, his balls touching Rory's and his chest almost flat against Rory's back.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned.

Rory's response was an inarticulate moan as Charlie began to move, gently easing back and pushing in. He could feel the head of his cock brushing over Rory's prostate, and tried his hardest to keep the rhythm steady, wanting to please Rory, wanting to make this the best lovemaking that Rory had ever had.

He adjusted his position slightly, trying to ease the muscles that were threatening to cramp up, and increased the speed of his thrusts. Rory was moaning audibly now, and his hips were rising as he sought more and more sensation. Charlie pulled him up onto his knees and started to thrust hard and fast. Rory's hand reached down to pump his cock and Charlie increased his speed, hoping strongly that his own orgasm would hold off long enough for him to bring Rory to his climax.

Suddenly Rory's movements became more frantic, Charlie made a few last, desperate thrusts, and then he felt, almost unbelievably, Rory clenching rhythmically around his cock. It was enough to drive him over the edge and his orgasm exploded through him, overwhelming him. Wave after wave of pleasure coursed through his body, until he collapsed, exhausted, over the body of his lover.

It was several minutes before either of them could move, and then Charlie pulled out, slowly and reluctantly. He remembered to take off the condom, then lay down at Rory's side, putting an arm over him and kissing the nearest bit of skin, which happened to be his shoulder.

Rory turned his head and smiled at him, looking sated and sleepy. "That was good," he managed to whisper. "Should do that more often."

"You won't get any argument from me." Charlie grinned. He wondered, fleetingly, if the intensity of their lovemaking had been related to the discussions they'd had. Maybe there was a practical benefit to being open and honest with each other? He wasn't sure, but it was worth exploring further.

Rory pulled the pillow out from under his hips and threw it on the floor. Charlie reached for the bedcovers at their feet. They snuggled down together, Charlie resting his head on Rory's shoulder, and were soon asleep.

  
 **3.5 -- Valentine**

_Wednesday 11 February 2004_

Charlie looked at the jewellery in the window, seeing the necklaces and bracelets and lockets -- all shaped like hearts. It was, of course, three days before St Valentine's Day, and he wanted to find something to tell Rory how much he meant to him.

He stood there for several minutes, unseeing, trying to think of something he could get Rory that he would like, and that wouldn't cost too much. It wouldn't be jewellery, though, that was too expensive and he didn't have much money of his own. He bit his lip. _Be honest,_ he told himself, _you don't have any money of your own_.

He wasn't precisely destitute -- Rory had put money in his bank account and given him a credit card -- but Charlie still felt like he had nothing that was really his. The royalty cheques were few and far between these days, and he would be back on the dole shortly, not that it was worth much: it would barely pay for the food he was eating, let alone rent or heating or clothes.

Sometimes he felt as if the last four years were just a dream, that he was still Rory's rent-boy. Then he'd catch sight of himself in a mirror or shop window, and the illusion would vanish. He didn't look like that eager boy any more. He didn't feel like him any more. He felt old, and thin, and jaded, and tired, and he couldn't understand how Rory could keep on looking after him, taking him to the chemist for methadone every day, making sure he got to his meetings and his doctor's appointments, organising that therapist referral, even buying him some light weights so he could tone up without risking a sprain.

He was totally dependent on Rory and he hated it.

Wearily, he turned around and headed for the only other place he could be sure of a warm welcome.

"Hello, there, dear," said his mother with a smile as she opened the door. "What a lovely surprise. Come on in out of the cold."

"Thanks Mum," he said as he gave her a hug.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mum. Really," he added, as she looked at him shrewdly. "I'm taking the stuff every day, rain or shine. Or snow."

"And how's Rory?"

"He's fine, too."

"When are the two of you coming over again?"

"We could come over this weekend, if you like."

"That would be lovely." She pottered around, making tea. "I do miss those big family lunches we used to have. It's not the same now you've all gone."

"You've still got Kevin."

"But for how long? You've heard he doesn't want to go to university? He wants to be an electrician, he's applying for an apprenticeship after he does his GCE."

Charlie grinned. "Well, that's hardly a surprising choice, considering he's taken almost every appliance in the house to pieces. About time he learned how to put them back together again." He took the cup of tea Meg proffered. "Thanks. Remember when he took my bass apart and I came in and found all the pieces on the bedroom floor?

Meg smiled. "He was only ten."

"We almost missed a gig because of that," he said, remembering how he and Liam had worked frantically to reconnect all the knobs and wires. "We had to get Mr Murray's soldering iron from across the road because a couple of the connections had broken. I was so angry with him."

"I think he realised that, after you walloped his backside."

"Yeah, well, it got the message across, didn't it? He never touched my stuff after that."

"You moved out soon after, anyway."

"Aye, I did." He paused, remembering the year he'd moved out.

"You're picking up Rory's mannerisms again, love," Meg chided him, gently.

"Huh?"

" _Aye_?"

He blushed. "Sorry. It's just that Rory's the only one I talk to most days."

"Is that a problem?"

"Not really -- I do love him, you know."

"I had guessed it was something of the sort."

He started fidgeting with his mug, trying to work out exactly what he wanted to say. "It's just that... ever since I got back to Manchester, he's looked after me -- you know that -- and, well, it's Valentine's Day on Saturday, and I want to get him something really special, but I don't have any money, at least no money that isn't his to start with. And no, I'm not asking for any, either," he added quickly, as Meg made an almost-instinctive move towards her handbag. "I still owe you for last year, anyway." He sighed. "I just want advice, I think. About what I can get him that doesn't cost much but tells him how I feel about him; how much he means to me."

"Does it have to be something tangible? Something solid?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Well, you could do something for him. Sing him a song, or give him a massage or something. A small bottle of massage oil wouldn't cost much, and you could say that ten massages are included. Or if there's something that he particularly likes, in bed, you could offer that."

Charlie felt his face reddening and squirmed in his seat. "Mum ..."

"Well, dear, I'm not going to pretend you just sleep in that bed of yours," she teased. "All right, love, I'll be serious. What can you do that he can't? Or, at least, do much better than him?"

Charlie thought about that for a minute. "Play guitar, play piano. Play videogames. Make jokes. Get into trouble."

"Don't be negative. Why don't you play him something?"

"Haven't played in months. Don't have a guitar any more. And I just can't ask him to buy me one -- he's done so much already. I feel like I'm just sponging off him."

Meg tapped her finger on the table, deep in thought for a moment, then got up. "Stay here," she told Charlie. "I'll be right back."

She returned carrying a guitar in a vinyl case. "I thought I'd seen this last year when we cleared out the back room -- it's Liam's old guitar. He left it behind when he went to Australia, and we kept it in case Kevin wanted to play. He did, for a while, but never took to it like you and Liam did. You should have it now."

Charlie unzipped the bag and took out the guitar -- it was acoustic, of course, not electric, but that didn't matter. He remembered that the tone had been good. He stroked his hand over the body, disturbing the faintest patina of dust on the golden-brown lacquer, but found no cracks. He hoisted it onto his knee and ran a finger over the strings, but they were well out of tune, and he pulled a face. Still, it was fantastic to hold a guitar again, to feel the notes thrumming though his body. Almost imperceptibly, he hummed a little as he analysed the notes and start to fiddle with the tuning knobs.

His mother spoke, wresting his attention from the instrument. "Charlie, love, I have to go in a minute -- I'm due at the hospital at two. Why don't you stay here and practice for a little bit?"

Charlie nodded, and smiled as he looked up. "I'll do that." He put the guitar on the table and stood up to give his mother a hug. "Thanks, Mum," he said, "you don't know what it means to me, to have a guitar again."

"I can see, love."

The light in her eyes must reflect his own, he thought, and he kissed her cheek. "I'll take care of it."

"I know you will." She patted his cheek and started getting ready to go out. "There's food in the fridge if you want something to eat. If Kevin gets home before you leave, make sure he goes up and does his homework before he switches on that Playstation."

"Yes, Mum."

"I mean that, Charlie. The three of you spoil him rotten. And don't forget to bring Rory over to lunch on Sunday."

"I won't."

Charlie's smile faded as she closed the door behind her, and he looked at the guitar.

"Well, old girl," he said, "I guess it's just you and me now."

He picked up the guitar and strummed a few chords. He grimaced at the sound, adjusted the tuning, and tried again. This time the tone was sweet, and he smiled as the notes rang out.

They had been Christmas presents, these guitars, one for Liam and one for Charlie. They'd been so pleased with them, so happy to be able to play at home instead of borrowing the school instruments for an hour at a time. They'd spent all their free time learning their favourite songs, some from sheet music, some from just listening, playing the guitars all day, every day until their parents threatened to take them back to the shop.

He smiled at the memory. Halcyon days, they'd been -- he and Liam had got on better that year than any time before or since. Things had started to go downhill when they'd formed their embryo band with Pat, and Liam had started throwing his weight around, convinced he was the 90s answer to Eddie van Halen. Charlie snorted -- Liam had always had an inflated idea of his talents. Still, his brother was on the other side of the world now, and Charlie was rebuilding his life, and if Liam's old guitar helped him to do that, he wasn't going to complain about its previous owner.

He played around for a while, just letting his hands adapt to the proportions of the instrument, then tried a couple of songs. He sighed at the result. He was very rusty -- hardly surprising, as it was months since he'd played his bass, and years since he'd touched a six-string. It would take a while before he was able to play at anything approaching his normal level. But at least he was here, and alive, and he had a guitar to play. There was a time, not so long ago, when he thought that he'd never play again, when he wasn't sure how much longer he'd survive.

He flexed his fingers and wrists -- they were aching already -- and started to play some finger exercises. Boring, yes, but necessary. He was going to have to learn how to be a musician, not just a bass player. He owed it to Rory. He owed it to his parents. Most of all, he owed it to himself.

  
 _Saturday 14 February 2004_

Charlie woke at seven and smiled when he saw the red glowing figures on the clock. He hadn't been sure that he could do it, but apparently his Mum was right (as usual). He'd told himself to wake up at seven, and here he was.

He got up slowly, so as not to disturb Rory, who was still snoring softly on the other side of the bed, and reached for his dressing gown. He quietly drew the guitar out where he'd hidden it under the bed, and set it up against the wall. With luck it wouldn't fall over before it got back.

He slipped out of the room and went to the main bathroom, looking sternly at his prick and telling it to settle down. There was a lot to do before he could even think of getting back into bed with Rory, though he had high hopes that they'd end up in a happy tangle of limbs before the day was much older.

He crept down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he put the kettle on and started getting things ready on a tray: a pot of tea and two mugs, several slices of toast, butter and marmalade, and a gift-wrapped box of Lindt chocolates that he knew were Rory's favourites.

At twenty-five minutes past seven he was climbing the stairs again, the tray heavy in his hands. The dull grey light filtering through a crack in the curtains told him that he didn't have much time, and he settled the tray on the chest of drawers while he drew the curtains back.

Rory stirred, and Charlie hurried over to his own side of the bed, picking up the guitar and strummed a soft chord. That was a good sign -- the guitar had kept its tuning overnight.

As Rory opened his eyes and looked at him, Charlie began to sing.

_"See me here, in darkness_  
 _Know that I have done all that I can..."_

It was a sad tune, in a minor key, and Charlie poured out all his misery and fears, everything he had felt that day he'd come back to Manchester.

_"When I was my weakest_  
 _You stepped in to heal me, make me whole..."_

He'd have died if Rory hadn't found him that night. They both knew that, though they didn't speak of it -- they were too superstitious to discuss death when it was still a possibility. But things were better now, Rory had healed him, had made him whole again, and things were going to be all right.

He looked up at Rory and, right on time, the sun rose over the horizon and flooded the bedroom with pale golden light.

_"And here you come_  
 _You are my deus ex machina..."_

He smiled at Rory's astonishment. Rory would always be his muse, his other half, his demi-urge. It was only natural that the songs he wrote reflected that.

He played through to the end of the song and put the guitar down. He felt suddenly shy, hoping Rory liked it, not daring to expect that he would.

"Was that for me?" Rory's voice was an awed whisper.

"Yes."

"It's beautiful."

Charlie lifted his eyes and looked at Rory, whose eyes were filled with tears (though he would most certainly deny it). He reached out a hand and Rory took it, pulling Charlie in close for a kiss.

"Happy Valentine's Day, love."

~~~~~

Breakfast, when they finally got around to it, was cold. Charlie looked at the dry, hard toast and guessed that the tea itself was well and truly stewed by now.

Rory, on the other hand, was hardly fazed at all. "You just pour me out a cup from that pot and then go and make a fresh one. And leave the toast -- it'll be fine with a bit of marmalade. We can always go out for lunch."

Charlie brightened at that. He poured them each a mug of tea, adding milk to both and three sugars to Rory's. On seeing Rory's expression he sighed, and added two sugars to his own.

Rory took his with a smile, making sure his hands wrapped around Charlie's completely before he tried to take the weight of the mug. He took a sip and sighed happily. "Just the thing." He set the mug down and started adding butter and marmalade to his toast, smiling up at Charlie. "Fresh tea. Now," he ordered with a smug grin.

Charlie took a swig from his own mug, then picked up the teapot and left the room, pausing only to lick Rory's ear, causing a muffled exclamation and a cry of dismay as the toast landed marmalade-side down on the bedspread. He grinned to himself as he headed down the stairs. Just because you're truly, madly, deeply in love, you don't have to be mushy all the time.

When he got back, a few minutes later, Rory was still sitting in bed, brushing away the toast crumbs and draining his tea. Charlie poured him a fresh cup and then walked around to his own side of the bed.

There was a small parcel there, on the pillow, wrapped in red paper and tied with silver ribbon.

"What's this?"

Rory mumbled something that sounded vaguely like, "For you."

"You got me a present?"

Rory nodded, and to Charlie's surprise his cheeks were slightly pink.

He was a bit surprised. While they had celebrated Valentine's Day in the past, it had generally been with a dinner or an outing, not presents. He picked the parcel up and looked over at Rory. What on earth could have Rory blushing?

"What is it?"

"Open it, you'll see."

Intrigued, he undid the ribbon and removed the wrapping paper. It was a small box, with a local jeweller's name on the lid. He opened it and found a silver ring. He looked at Rory, astounded.

"I know you miss your rings," said Rory in a low voice.

"I do." It was true, he'd worn rings for so long that his hands felt naked without them. He'd hated having to sell them -- he'd hung on to them as long as he could -- but the need for heroin had been too strong in the end, and they had followed all of his other possessions, exchanged for drugs. That Rory would have taken the trouble to buy him something that he really wanted brought tears to his eyes and he blinked them away, furiously.

He took the ring and tried it on. It was too large for his ring finger, but fit his middle finger exactly. "Thank you. It's perfect."

Rory blushed again, and Charlie threw his arms around him.

"I love you," he announced, planting kisses all over Rory's face. "You are the most wonderful man in the entire world, and I'm lucky to have you."

"Oh, weesht," muttered Rory.

"You can't fool me, Rory McManus. Beneath that rough, tough Glasgow exterior you're just a mushy romantic."

"Bugger that."

"Bugger me instead, you'll enjoy it more."

And he did.

  



	4. Revenge

**4.1 -- An Accidental Murder**

_Tuesday 24 February 2004_

It didn't take very long for Rory to track down Tuomi Saastimoinen. Finns weren't exactly thick on the ground in London, and tall blond gay Finns with a taste for sadism and bondage were relatively conspicuous, if you knew who to ask. Rory made it his business to know.

Within a month of Charlie's confession, Rory had a file containing the man's full name, address, phone number (unlisted), business associates, friends and favourite haunts. It had cost him a few favours and a lot of money, but he didn't begrudge the effort: Tuomi had despoiled something that belonged to him—something that belonged only to Rory—and Rory was going to punish him.

He had given great thought to the matter as he accumulated the information he needed. Much as he wanted simply to beat Tuomi senseless and then throw him in the river, he knew that he had to be a lot more careful. This wasn't some petty thief or welfare low-life that could disappear without anyone knowing or caring. This was someone who had a regular job, who had criminal friends of his own and a selection of influential contacts. If he was going to deal with him and survive, Rory had to make his plans more thoroughly and more carefully than he had ever done in his life.

He had spent hours contemplating his plan of action. He had even considered consulting his father and using his organisation, before deciding against it. This was his problem to deal with, not his father's, and the fewer people involved the better. Even Chris and Ken were probably two too many, but he had to have back-up—he might have a black belt in karate, but he wasn't stupid enough to tackle someone more than a foot taller on his own.

He took the gun out of the drawer and regarded it morosely. He hated guns: they were for thugs and deadbeats. Real men—Glasgow men—used a blade. He would carry his knife, of course, but Tuomi would undoubtedly have a gun himself, licensed or not, and Rory had no intention of getting caught out. Pride was one thing, stupidity was quite another. Stupidity would only land him in prison, and that would be as bad as losing Charlie again.

Whatever he did, it had to be discreet, it had to be comprehensive, and it had to be done soon, before Tuomi had the opportunity to move away, before he had the chance to escape. It was already two months since Charlie had returned, and who knew what the man might have been up to in the meantime?

At least there was no evidence that Tuomi was on Charlie's trail. It was possible that Tuomi had tracked him down, of course, but Rory had been keeping a careful eye out over the last few weeks and had seen no sign of any surveillance, and, as far as he could tell, his office was clean and mail untampered.

With that in mind, Rory put the phone down in its cradle and looked down with deep satisfaction at the information he had jotted down—Tuomi had just told the workers at his office that he had booked a winter break, a two-week holiday in the Bahamas, starting on Friday night. It was the opportunity Rory needed; one that he couldn't afford to ignore; one that he would use—and use to his advantage.

His diary showed nothing important in the next few days—a couple of payments due on Thursday and Friday, but nothing that couldn't be postponed if necessary.

"Chris, Ken, come in here," he called. The two men walked in a moment later—Ken frankly curious, Chris calm and prepared for anything. "We're going to London on Friday—there's a little matter I want to clear up down there. It might take a couple of days, so be prepared to stay overnight."

"Weapons?" asked Ken eagerly. He was always keen on a fight, and if he could stack the odds in his favour, well, then, so much the better.

"Nothing you can't conceal. Nothing that makes a noise. And don't forget your gloves."

"Lockpick?"

Rory sighed. Ken fancied himself as a lockpicker, but he was pretty hopeless at it. Besides, anyone living in London was as likely as not to have a combination lock and a home security system. "No. We'll talk our way in if we need to. This is probably going to get nasty and I don't want to leave any evidence behind."

"How nasty?"

"As nasty as it gets."

"Good," said Ken with a feral grin. "Life's been far too quiet. Should I bring a shovel?"

Rory looked at him, at Chris's look of mild disapproval—which meant that he was seriously worried about what Rory had just told them—and gave a thin, Shark-like grin. "Aye, Ken. Bring a shovel."

~~~~~

When he got home that evening, Charlie was sitting on the sofa, his head bent over his guitar, playing softly and humming, almost crooning to himself. Rory had been fairly quiet as he came in, and it was obvious that Charlie had no idea he was being observed.

Rory watched from the door, trying to stay as still as possible. There was something so pure, so innocent, in Charlie's attitude when he was immersed in his music. All the cares, all the worries, all the petty annoyances fell away and his face took on a glow as his spirit soared.

It made Rory feel ten feet tall just to watch his lover being happy. It wasn't often that Rory got to see Charlie unawares, without the self-consciousness that had dogged him since his return in December. His attitude seemed to say that he didn't believe that he deserved to be forgiven, or loved, and he crept around the flat, offering to do things for Rory every few minutes.

Rory longed for the brash, confident youth he'd known just a couple of years ago, but it was a foolish wish, he knew that. They were both older now, and changed by the harsh things they'd seen and done. Charlie wasn't that boy now: he was sadder, and wiser, and lonelier. He had no friends here anymore, just his family and Rory. The band had scattered—Pat was in London, Sinjin was in America and Liam in Australia. Most of Charlie's childhood friends were working nine to six and bringing up families of their own; they didn't have time to socialise. Charlie was still banned from driving, which meant that he was relatively immobile while Rory was working, though the weather had been so bad that staying in the warm flat was definitely a more attractive option than wandering around Manchester in the bitter cold. It would be spring soon, though, and then Charlie would have to start looking for a job, and Rory would feel worried every minute of every day, because he still worried that Charlie would go back to the drugs or that he would find someone else to love.

He had to learn to trust his lover—as much as Charlie trusted him—and that was going to be the most difficult thing he would ever do in his life.

He must have moved inadvertently, because Charlie suddenly looked up. Seeing Rory, he smiled, and Rory couldn't help but smile back. He loved this Charlie just as much as he'd loved the boy of four years ago, and if this Charlie wasn't quite so carefree, he was more thoughtful and contemplative, and a little more appreciative of his surroundings.

"Hi, love," said Charlie. "I didn't hear you come in. Good day at the office?"

"Hmm," Rory walked over to the sofa and kissed him. "Missed you."

Charlie caught his hand and kissed the palm. "Missed you, too."

Rory smiled at the gesture, but he knew that Charlie wouldn't be nearly as friendly once he broke the news. Ah, well, might as well come out with it now and give Charlie the opportunity to sulk for a while before bedtime. "I have to go away on Friday," he said. "Just for one night, maybe two. Can't get out of it, I'm afraid."

"Glasgow?"

He almost corrected him, but then nodded, and said, "Aye." Better that Charlie think this was just a routine trip than something out of the ordinary. The more mundane it seemed, the more easily it would be forgotten.

Charlie grimaced. Rory knew Charlie didn't like him going up to Glasgow alone, but even less did he relish the prospect of coming face to face with Fank McManus. And as far as Rory was concerned, if the two never met, he'd be quite content. He saw no reason to expose Charlie to the scorn and humiliation he endured himself.

"What time are you leaving?"

"Oh, not until tennish. I'll have time to take you to the chemist, and then I thought you might stay with your Mum that night."

"I'm old enough to be left on my own, you know."

"You don't have a driving licence, remember? Someone has to take you in to the chemist on Saturday morning."

"I don't have to stay with Mum and Dad. I could get a taxi, or we could ask the pharmacist for a double dose on Friday morning."

Rory frowned. They were both valid options, but he didn't really want to choose either of them. While he trusted Charlie with almost everything, when it came to methadone he had no confidence that Charlie would do what he was supposed to do instead of what he wanted to do. "I don't like the thought of leaving you on your own. I'm sure your Mum will run you in."

Charlie made a face, but didn't argue any further. Rory wasn't sure whether he should be alarmed or relieved, but he was thankful that he didn't have to exert an unacceptable degree of coercion to get Charlie to cooperate. Now all he had to do was talk Meg into taking Charlie to the chemist, and then keeping his fingers crossed that he would be back in Manchester by Saturday afternoon.

~~~~~

_Friday 27th February_

It was cold and gloomy as they left the city, with the threat of more snow, and Rory's mood was as sombre as the weather. Charlie had been sulky and difficult, and Rory had had to keep a tight grip on his temper. When they got to Meg's and Charlie had looked at him so sadly, he had almost broken down and told Charlie why he was making the trip, but caught himself in time. _Charlie mustn't know_ , he reminded himself. _He mustn't ever know_.

With Chris and Ken alternating in the driving seat, they reached the M25 orbital by midday. After that it was a case of fighting through the traffic and the maze of one-way streets until they arrived at their destination— a row of houses that had mostly been subdivided into flats, their once-elegant facades defaced by buzzers and mail boxes. The pavements were almost completely obstructed by cars, parked so close that it was a wonder any of them could get in or out without bumping into each other. Some of the houses still had the tired, bitter remnants of gardens, but most had given up the fight entirely and had succumbed to concrete or brick. It was a depressing street, and Rory wondered why someone like Tuomi lived here when he could probably afford a smarter flat closer to the city.

Rory checked the address as they drove by at a crawl. "That's it—number 34, flat 2B."

"Do you want me to stop?" asked Chris.

"No, keep going. Ken—check for closed-circuit TVs."

"What if we've already passed them?"

"Don't worry—we're going to turn around and come back this way to double check."

"OK."

They did another pass down the road before Rory decided that they had better not draw too much attention to themselves. He had Chris drop them off, then told him to get some petrol and park the car on the street anywhere he could.

He and Ken approached the door and rang the buzzer for flat 2B. Rory wasn't expecting an answer—it was a working day, after all—but it was nice to have that confirmed. He was also on the lookout for tell-tale twitches of lace curtains, but so far he hadn't seen anything to suggest an inquisitive neighbour.

"All right, then," he sighed. "We wait, and hope he hasn't left already."

Ken spotted Chris returning a few minutes later. He'd managed to park the car just around the corner, which was better than nothing, but Rory told them both to be on the lookout for any car being taken out from the street. He scanned the immediate area for a more concealed observation post, and finally directed them to a small alleyway between the terraces on the opposite side of the road and about twenty metres down. It stank of piss and refuse, but there was little option if they wanted to remain unnoticed.

The temperature was barely five degrees, and while they were glad of shelter from the wind, there was little that could be done about the cold that seeped in through their shoes and coats.

"Christ, I hope this bastard hasn't gone to Majorca for the week," muttered Ken. "I don't fancy standing here for days on end."

"Bahamas."

"What?"

"He's going to the Bahamas tomorrow."

"Well I hope he isn't going straight from work."

Rory felt like kicking himself. He hadn't thought of that. Had Tuomi left early? He had the man's work number—all he had to do was call it and ask to be put through. He got out his mobile phone, but hesitated before punching in the number. Mobiles could be traced, couldn't they? He changed his mind, putting the phone away and copying the number onto a piece of paper, which he handed to Ken.

"You have any coins?"

"Sure. What do you need me to do?"

"Find a phone box and call this number. Use that Somerset accent you do for a laugh, and ask for Mr Saastimoinen."

"Mr Sasty-moynun. Right."

"If they start to put you through, hang up. If they say he's out, ask when he'll be back. Then hang up and come back here. Got that?"

"Got it."

"And bring some tea or coffee back with you. It's fucking brass monkeys here."

Ken was back in twenty minutes with two cups of tea and the news that Tuomi was still in his office.

"Good." Rory looked at his watch. "He should get back between six-thirty and seven, unless the twat goes for a drink afterwards."

They resumed their vigil, which got a little easier after four o'clock, when one of the residents left in his car, opening up a gap. Chris immediately went for the Camry, while Ken and Rory prevented anyone else from taking the spot. After that, they were able to sit in the relative comfort and warmth of the car, only stepping out to relieve themselves back down the alley.

Ken dozed off, while Chris and Rory exchanged desultory comments on the occasional passers-by. There had been a few people who had gone in and out of the building—a thin, gangly Jamaican, a tired-looking Indian woman in a faded sari, and a skinny white teenager with spiked hair and ripped jeans—but no one that looked anything like Tuomi.

It was full dark and the rush hour was long over when Chris looked in the rear view mirror and said, quietly, "Boss."

"Aye?"

"Coming down the street behind us. One man. Tall, pale, shoulder-length blond hair."

Rory wound down the window and looked out, ignoring the icy air that seemed to attack him. "Aye, that looks like our man. You'd better wake Ken."

Chris prodded Ken, who woke and stretched, then came to attention as he realised that they were about to got into action. "Is that him?" he asked, twisting around.

"Aye."

Rory was pulling his gloves back on. "Wait until he's turned into the path—just to make sure."

"Follow him in or drag him to the car?"

"Follow him in. I don't want him struggling and calling for help in the middle of the street. I don't want anyone to notice us if I can help it."

"Ok, boss."

"Do you have the tape, Ken?"

"In my pocket."

"Then let's go."

They surged out of the car; Rory and Chris in the lead, with Ken a little behind.

Tuomi looked around at the noise of car doors slamming. When he saw three men heading towards him he took fright and tried to run, but the railings around the tiny garden caught on his coat and hampered his escape. He was pushed up against the entrance by Chris and Rory.

"Not a sound," growled Chris, pressing hard into Tuomi's back. "Stay quiet and you won't get hurt."

Rory was going through the coat pockets and came up with a bunch of keys. He put them into Tuomi's hand. "Now then, sunshine," he said, his soft tone belying the menace, "open the door nice and slowly, and take us upstairs. We're going to have a little chat about business, you and I—clear up a misunderstanding."

"Who are you? What do you want?" asked Tuomi, then grunted as Chris leaned harder, squashing the air out of him.

"We're asking the questions, lad. Save your breath for now, or you might not make it out in one piece."

Tuomi seemed to believe them. His shoulder slumped and he reached out to take the keys from Rory. As the two men relaxed, he tried to make a break for it, but was caught by Ken and took a fist to the stomach for his trouble.

Rory took hold of an ear and twisted it, smiling at the man's grimace. "I said 'open the door', f-fuckwit. Do as you're told and you w-won't get hurt."

"I don't believe you," he said.

"Tough. D-Do it anyway."

With hands that had developed a slight tremor, Tuomi opened the door. He led them up the stairs to his flat and unlocked the door.

Chris pushed the door open and stepped into the tiny hallway. There was an archway into the kitchen straight ahead, and a short corridor stretching to their left. He took a couple of steps and found that the next opening led into a small lounge. Tuomi and Rory followed him, and Ken came in last, closing the front door behind him and sliding the bolts home.

Tuomi looked at Rory and smiled sadly. "So. You walk into my flat, you threaten me ... what do you want? Money? Information?" His voice was deep, with only the slightest hint of an accent, and his eyes were hard and calculating.

"Never you mind."

"You are not police." He considered them for a moment longer then nodded. "You are going to kill me, I think."

Rory knew he should have reassured his victim with a plausibly smooth denial, but the memory of what he had done to Charlie rose like bile in his throat, and he snarled, "Perhaps." _And if I do it won't be nearly as quickly as you'd like, you filthy predatory scum_. "Ken, tape his mouth."

Chris quickly closed the curtains in the lounge, and then made a rapid survey of the other rooms—two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. He came back in a hurry, his face grim. "Boss, you ought to see this," he said, nodding to the room he'd just left.

Leaving Chris and Ken to guard Tuomi, Rory stepped through into what had once been an elegant bedroom. It had good proportions, with a high ceiling and a bay window that faced the street, but Rory saw none of this. The smell of stale urine—and worse—made him wrinkle his nose, but his eyes were drawn to the far wall, where a boy of around twenty huddled naked on a mattress, his wrists tied together with blue nylon rope and then to a ringbolt in the wall. The boy's mouth was taped, but his eyes pleaded shame and desperation.

Rory was shocked to his core, by the sight and by the sudden catastrophic realisation that this— _this!_ —must have been what Charlie had endured; what he had been too ashamed to tell Rory to his face. This was what he must have looked like, before he broke and allowed Tuomi to do what he liked to him.

A wave of rage rose within him—so pure, so fierce, so primal that he had to scream or explode with it. Without thinking, he strode back into the lounge and sank his fist deep into Tuomi's gut. He had moved so fast that the blond hadn't even seen it coming, and he doubled over in agony. Rory grabbed his head and drove it hard into his raised knee.

"You s-stinking piece of shit! You f-f-fucking slime!"

Rory had gone completely berserk, and continued to kick Tuomi as the man fell to the ground. Chris dragged him up to a kneeling position and Rory dealt the man a few more good kicks.

Ken looked flummoxed. He had never seen his boss out of control before and had no idea what had just happened. Chris, at least, had the benefit of knowing what was in the back room—and if he had made the connection between the naked boy and Charlie, he kept it to himself—and made sure that Tuomi couldn't get away.

The tape had come away from Tuomi's mouth in the struggle, and he gasped. "What is this about?" he wailed, struggling to stay upright. His breath was ragged and uneven, courtesy of several hard blows to the ribs.

"It's about you and your f-f-fucking d-disgusting habits. It's about you and w-what you do to the k-kids you find on the street. You're nothing but f-filth. You should be l-locked away, you and everyone l-like you." He punctuated his speech with more kicks, furious that he was stuttering again.

Blood streamed down the man's face from his broken nose, but that only served to enflame Rory's anger further. It wasn't until Tuomi was curled up on the ground, trying ineffectually to protect his head from Rory's kicks, that Chris intervened.

"Boss," he said, "we'd better get the kid out of here before we go any further."

Rory took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. "You're right," he panted. "You're right." He ran a hand through his hair and took a moment to recover his breath before heading back to the bedroom.

The boy was, if anything, more frightened now than he had been the first time, and Rory had to force himself to remain calm and to speak in a low, non-threatening tone as he peeled off the tape that secured his mouth. "Are those your clothes?" he asked, gesturing to a pile of clothing in the corner. The boy nodded, and Rory brought them over to the mattress. He looked at the knots in the rope and shook his head—he wasn't going to stuff around trying to undo them. He took out his knife, saying "This is for the ropes, not you." The boy was obviously terrified, and Rory was afraid he was going to struggle. He tried again. "My business is with that fucking bastard Tuomi, not you. I'm going to cut the ropes now. Don't move, or I might cut you and I don't want to do that. Do you understand?" The boy nodded, and Rory set to work as gently as he could. As soon as he had finished he put the knife back in his pocket and backed away slowly. "Do you want to clean yourself up a bit before you get dressed?"

The boy nodded and Rory moved back, leaving the path to the bathroom clear. "Be quick about it, lad. We don't want to linger here." The boy grabbed his clothes and ran for the bathroom.

Rory returned to the lounge and gave Tuomi—now groaning on the floor, his mouth once more sealed with tape—a baleful glare. He sat down in the armchair opposite him and steepled his hands in front of his face.

Tuomi mumbled something indistinguishable. Rory gestured to Ken, who gave the man a well-aimed kick in the ribs that shut him up for a while.

It was about ten minutes later that the boy re-appeared at the door, dressed and wet-haired. He looked to be about twenty—old enough to think he could survive on his own, young enough to fall under the spell of someone like Tuomi. He looked apprehensively at the body on the floor, then at the three strange men in the room, obviously not daring to move further.

"It's all right, s-son. He's not going to hurt you any more."

Rory got up and moved slowly towards the door, cursing as the boy cringed back against the far wall. He held his hands open, showing that he had no weapons.

"Where are you from, lad?" he asked gently.

"P-P-Plymouth," the boy stuttered.

Rory felt a moment of sympathy for a fellow-stutterer. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a couple of twenties. "Buy yourself a ticket home and don't come back. I mean it. Walk out that door and forget you ever saw us. We were never here."

The boy nodded and took the money, thrusting deep into his jeans pocket. He headed down the hall to the front door.

Ken followed him and made sure that the door was locked behind him before turning back to Rory. "You think he'll talk?" he asked.

Rory shrugged. "I don't know."

"I could follow him and make sure he doesn't."

"No." No, he couldn't bear to think of harming the boy—a boy who could so easily have been Charlie. He would just have to hope that he kept his mouth shut. Fuck, but he was getting sentimental in his old age.

He walked back into the lounge with Ken and pulled up suddenly—Tuomi was lying on the floor, still and quiet. Very still.

Rory felt a chill dread. Chris bent over and checked for a pulse, but they all knew it was too late. Sometime in the last five minutes, Tuomi Saastimoinen had died.

  
 **4.2 -- Cleaning Up**

Chris nodded. "He's dead."

"Shit."

"You wanted him dead anyway, boss," said Ken, trying to look on the bright side.

"I wanted him to know why," said Rory, quietly, "and I wanted to do it a long, long way from here. Fuck!"

"What do we do now?"

Rory rubbed his eyes, then noticed that there was blood on his sleeve. _Ironic_ , he thought _. Blood on my hands at last—and for Charlie, not for my da_. "We sit here and think for a minute."

"We could just leave him here, get in the car and go home." It was Ken again.

"We need to get rid of the body," corrected Chris.

"Not necessarily," Rory said. "We need to get ourselves out of here without anyone seeing us. As for him," he looked malevolently at the body, "we need to make sure he isn't found for a long time—long enough that anyone who saw us today will have forgotten all about us."

"How soon will he be missed?"

Rory sighed. "I have no idea. Two weeks if we're lucky. Twenty-four hours if we aren't."

Chris started taking an inventory of the room. "There's blood on the carpet, and on your suit."

"Aye, but only his. None of ours," he breathed, thankful he hadn't taken his gloves off. He cogitated for a few minutes more, then looked up. "All right. First things first." He walked over to the body and quickly removed the man's wallet from his jacket. "Take the tape off his mouth. Get that coat off him, then carry him into the bathroom. Dump him in the bath and open the window a couple of inches—but don't let yourself be seen."

"Wouldn't it be best to leave him on the floor here?" asked Ken. "Make it look like a robbery gone wrong?"

Rory shook his head. "It's too warm in here, he'll start to smell. And no one's going to think it's an accidental death, anyway, so there's no point trying to disguise it. Though maybe ... aye, Ken, take his jacket off, and his tie, and make it look like he just fell into the bath after he was hit on the head."

"They'll never buy that," Chris demurred.

"Maybe not, but it's our best chance. And after seeing the evidence in the other room, the police will think it was his victim who overpowered him."

"As long as they don't find the victim."

"I doubt they will. He's not exactly going to be volunteering to help them with their enquiries, is he?"

Neither Chris nor Ken could argue with that, so they bent to pick up the corpse.

It took a bit of effort, but eventually Tuomi was deposited in the bath in accordance with Rory's directions. The window, providentially, had a permanent two-inch gap at the top, covered in mesh, and the window itself was thick frosted glass. Rory rinsed his gloved hands under the tap and dried them on his jacket—no need to spread fibres further than was absolutely necessary, he told himself. He checked his shoes—there had to be blood on them too, but he couldn't see anything obvious, and figured it was worth the risk to leave them as they were.

He left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. "It'll be freezing in there soon enough. Turn down the heating and pull the phone cable out of the wall." He turned to Chris. "Look around for a hat—something that will hide your face. Aye, you're going to have to wear his coat out of here. Ken, go back to the car and drive it around the corner. We'll meet you near the zebra crossing. You might have to drive around the block a couple of times if anyone takes too much interest in you."

Ken nodded and grabbed the car keys from Chris.

Chris picked up the coat and inspected it. There was some blood on the lapels, but it didn't show up much against the dark wool. He found some paper towelling in the kitchen and blotted most of it away, then stuffed the paper in the coat pocket.

Rory was collecting a small pile of things on the coffee table—laptop computer, electronic organiser, notebook from beside the phone. Chris delved into the bedroom and returned with a fur hat and a small suitcase.

"Good thinking," said Rory. "We may as well make it look like he went on that trip."

They quickly threw in a suit of clothes and a few toiletries, plus swimming togs and shorts. Rory extracted the cash from Tuomi's wallet then it joined the pile, along with the mobile phone (switched to silent, and that was tricky to do in gloves, but he wasn't going to risk a fingerprint) and his passport.

They took a final look around the flat then Chris shrugged himself into the coat and put the hat on his head. He picked up the suitcase and they left the flat, making sure that all the lights were out and the door locked behind them.

It was a short but brisk walk down the street and around the corner to where Ken was waiting for them. They got in, and he pulled out smoothly, barely waiting for them to get their seat-belts fastened. "Where to, boss?" he asked.

Rory thought. Home. He wanted to go to home, back to safety, back to Charlie, but they couldn't, not yet. He had to make sure that they were all safe first. "West," he ordered. "Get back onto the orbital and then take the M4 exit to Bristol. We've got to get rid of this stuff before we head back to Manchester."

At least the roads were relatively quiet now—though still busy by any normal city's standards. They stopped, briefly, to work out where they'd ended up after an unexpected detour due to roadworks, and Chris took the opportunity to shed Tuomi's greatcoat, which was stifling in the heat of the car. He rolled it inside out and bundled it into the boot with the suitcase.

"I'll take the car to the cleaner's when we get back," he said, as he got back in the car.

"Aye, make sure they do it up properly, inside and out. Tell them I'm looking at trading it in soon."

"We've probably left hairs and fibres in the flat."

"Can't be helped. Could be a lot worse. Who's to say how many boys he's had up there?—or other visitors, for that matter. They've no way of telling who was a visitor and who was the killer. And they'd have to get samples from us to match anything they find in the flat—which mean they'd have to know we were there."

"The car was there for a few hours."

Rory shrugged. It was their one weak spot and he knew it. "Not long enough for anyone to get suspicious. And no cameras on the street, thank Christ. As long as no one finds the body, we're safe, and the longer it takes to find it, the safer we are."

"Should have killed the kid, too," Ken piped up.

"There was no reason to kill him."'

"He might talk."

"I doubt it."

"Do you really think he'll go back to his family?" asked Chris quietly.

Rory shook his head. "No. He'll be off down the high street to the nearest dealer. But I had to give him the chance."

~~~~~

They made good time on the M4, and it was only one in the morning by the time they reached the outskirts of Bristol. Ken wanted to head straight for the docks, but Rory told him not to be so stupid. "Cameras, Ken. You've got to start thinking about those fucking cameras. They're everywhere. We need somewhere quiet, deserted, with access to the water."

They found it at Portishead, after another half hour's drive—a scenic lookout over the estuary. Rory threw the phone and wallet as far as he could, beyond the rocks and into the deeper water. Ken threw the electronic organiser and Chris—the strongest of them as well as the tallest—threw the laptop. Rory looked at the coat, hat and suitcase. "What do you think, Chris—put the hat and coat in the case, or keep them separate?"

Chris looked at the case and then down at the cliff. He shook his head. "I doubt it'll make much difference. They won't go far enough out."

Rory looked at the cliff and the rocks beneath. Chris was right. "Fuck." He was silent for a minute. "Plan B, then—we take the case and the clothing back to Manchester and burn them."

"Burn the coat—it's got his blood on it, and my hairs. But we could give the suit to the Salvos—dump it in one of their clothing bins. They'd never think twice about it."

"Good idea."

"I could bust up the case a bit and then throw it in the rubbish," suggested Ken.

"OK. But don't take your gloves off until it's been disposed of." He shivered. "Let's get back to the car. It's fucking freezing out here."

They retraced their steps and were soon back in the Camry's warmth. Rory stripped off his thin leather gloves with a sigh of relief, and Chris did the same. Ken took the wheel again, saying he had slept during the afternoon. Chris and Rory dozed, waking only when Ken wanted to know if he should fill the car up.

"Get as far north as you can, and pay in cash," was all that Rory said before nodding off again.

They made good time once they were back on the M6 and reached Manchester just before 7 am. It had snowed again in the night but they were able to make it through the streets without too much difficulty. They dropped Ken at his flat with the suitcase, which he promised to deal with that very day, and Rory told him again to get his clothes laundered and dry-cleaned as soon as possible.

The next stop was Rory's flat, where Chris waited while Rory changed his clothes, nodding with approval when Rory re-appeared with his suit over his arm (the trousers and one sleeve wet from being rinsed out under the tap) and a soggy pair of shoes.

"I'll throw the shoes in the rubbish skip on the way out. It'll be emptied on Monday. Can I leave this suit at your place until it's dry? I don't want Charlie catching sight of it."

"Aye, it'll be no problem. I can take it into the cleaners for you later."

"Thanks."

"Will Charlie notice that you've taken an extra suit?"

"I doubt it. He didn't watch me pack."

"And the shoes?"

"I'll tell him they were starting to come apart so I threw them out. They're fairly old, he'll believe it."

There was one final stop at Chris's place, to allow him to change as well, and then it was back to the office. Rory was sorely tempted to collect Charlie from his mother's right then and there, and curl up with him at home, but he couldn't risk it. He'd pick Charlie up on his way home after lunch, as he had promised, and that would be that.

~~~~~

If Rory had had any doubts about what he'd done, the sight of Charlie opening the door to him at his parents' house dispelled them.

Charlie greeted him with a mix of relief, anger and frustration. "Don't ever leave me here again," he hissed, as he pulled Rory into a hug.

Rory winced. It had been in the back of his mind that Charlie might have problems, but there really hadn't been any other option, since taking him to London with him was out of the question. He wrapped his arms around his lover and stood still, savouring the feel and warmth and smell of Charlie—so clean, so fresh, so pure. In his mind's eye he could see again the frightened boy in Tuomi's flat, could smell the stench of filth and fear that had pervaded the room. It tore him apart to think that Charlie had been there, had been degraded and abused and afraid like that boy. Thank God Charlie had managed to escape.

He wished he could tell Charlie what he'd done for him; he wished he could reassure him that Tuomi was dead and would never hurt him—or anyone else—ever again, but he couldn't risk it. Chris knew, and Ken knew and that was two too many. He couldn't take the risk that Charlie would blurt it all out at the wrong moment and bring the police down on them.

He couldn't ever tell Charlie, so he simply tightened his arms and told himself that he'd never again let his lover out of his life again. He'd never let anything happen to Charlie again.

"Bad?" he asked, sliding his own arms around Charlie and rubbing his back.

Charlie shuddered. "Fucking awful. I am so glad I stayed with you when Mum wanted me to come home."

"Did you have another argument?"

"Just the usual—Dad was a bit narky, it started getting to me after a while. I was just bored out of my skull, mainly. Watched a few DVDs, tried to read a bit. Mum took me to the chemist this morning so I got my dose, and tomorrow's too. Came back. Missed you. Waited for you to come back."

Rory knew that Charlie was trying to pile on the guilt, and to a certain extent it was justified. "I won't leave you again," he promised. _Not now, not ever_ , he added. _Not unless the police get me, anyway_.

"Good. Take me home and fuck me raw."

Rory tilted his head and inhaled Charlie's scent. He could smell the frustration and the anger and he thought of how much better Charlie would smell once he was aroused and hard and begging. "Where's your bag?"

Charlie nodded to the corner beside the door. "I didn't want to waste any time."

Rory grinned and picked it up. "Come on, then," he said. "We've got some serious shagging to do, and I don't fancy being interrupted by your mum. Where is she, anyway? I ought to say hello."

"She's gone to the shops, she'll be ages." Charlie said with a grin, draping himself over Rory's shoulder and nuzzling at the skin on his neck.

"What about your Dad?"

"Got called into the factory."

"And Kevin?"

"He's in the lounge playing _Prince of Persia_ again. He wouldn't notice if the house caught fire." Charlie turned his attention to Rory's earlobe, eliciting a shiver and a stifled moan.

Rory pushed him away, giving him a mock-glare. "I'm still not shagging you in this house. Our place is less than ten minutes away, and I can have a shower and then spend the rest of the day making you whimper."

Charlie gave a delicious little shiver and opened the door. "Let's go then." He called out to Kevin that he was leaving, and received an indistinct acknowledgement in reply.

As Rory started the car, Charlie made a suggestion. "Maybe we can get away for a few days, just the two of us. Somewhere we can have a bit of fun. Maybe we could go to Scotland again—I liked it up there."

"Not in February, lad. When the weather's better, we'll go for a holiday. In the summer."

"Easter?"

Rory smiled. The prospect of taking Charlie up to Scotland again was quite enticing, and Easter was definitely closer than summer. "Maybe Easter. If the weather's good."

"It will be."

"Maybe you could research it for me—find us a couple of places to stay."

Charlie grinned broadly, obviously delighted at the prospect of something to do. "Yeah, I could do that tonight."

"Not tonight, lad. As soon as we get home I'm going to fuck you over the kitchen table, then I'm going to have a shower and a wee nap while you order us something to eat, then I'll take you to bed and—"

"—and spend the rest of the night making me whimper," finished Charlie. "I remember that bit."

"Good, because by the time I'm finished with you, you won't remember anything else."

Charlie laughed, and Rory turned the car into the driveway.

Once in the kitchen, even the lure of coffee wasn't enough to stop Rory pushing Charlie up against the cupboards and kissing him deeply. Charlie responded with ardour, and the need that had been smouldering inside him ignited with a rush. Clothes were a hindrance that he dealt with by merely unzipping and removing them as fast as was humanly possible. Charlie made a dash for the jar containing the condoms and lubricant, and within seconds Rory was lined up against Charlie's back, with Charlie bracing himself on the small kitchen table.

As aroused as he was, as eager as they both were, Rory hesitated, feeling that there was something not quite right. He felt a fierce, primitive need to possess Charlie, to bury himself deep inside his lover's body and have Charlie's arms around him. He wanted to make Charlie cry out with passion, to look deep into Charlie's eyes and see his soul ... and with that thought, he realised what was wrong, and turned Charlie around to face him, pushing him up onto the kitchen table.

Charlie was momentarily startled, but then grinned and kissed Rory on the lips before lifting his legs and leaning back on his elbows. "Fuck me now," he growled.

Rory nodded, and hurried through his preparations before placing his cock against Charlie's entrance. "Need this," he murmured as he eased his way in. _I need you_ , he added in his thoughts.

He wasn't sure why he felt this way. Maybe it was because killing Tuomi had reminded him of the fragility of life, triggering some need to reassure himself of love. Maybe it was because he craved comfort. Maybe he just wanted to feel that Charlie was worth what he had done. And maybe all that philosophy was pure crap and he was just horny because he hadn't had sex in two days.

"Oh, yes, that's it," Charlie groaned, wrapping his legs around Rory's waist and pulling him in closer. "Missed you last night, wanked myself thinking about you."

"Wank yourself now," Rory told him, "I want to see your hand on your cock."

Charlie complied, his eyes half-closing and his head leaning back. He looked wanton and flushed and—to Rory's eye, at least—totally irresistible. It was impossible to hold back, or even to slow down—as much as he wanted this to last, he need to thrust hard and deep; he needed to feel Charlie coming around him. There would be time later for going slow—time for touching and caressing and kissing and just being with each other. This time was for claiming him, for washing away every trace of Tuomi, for making Charlie forget that there had ever been anyone else but Rory.

With that thought in mind, he redoubled his efforts, and was rewarded by seeing Charlie's head drop back and his body clenching around him in orgasm. His own soon followed, and his strength disappeared as his body relaxed.

"Are you all right?" asked Charlie as he grabbed Rory to stop him falling.

"Aye, just tired." Rory steadied himself on the table as he pulled out.

Charlie took the condom off and threw it in the bin. "You should sit down and have a rest. I'll make some coffee and we can have a nap on the settee."

That sounded like heaven to Rory, but he wanted to have a shower, to scrub away all traces of the last forty-eight hours before he slept.

"I'll have a shower while you make the coffee." He straightened up, glad that his legs were up to the task, and smiled back at his lover. "I'll be fine once I've showered and changed."

"Maybe I should come with you."

"You just did," he grinned.

Charlie grinned back and put his arms around him. "Idiot."

"You're the eejit."

"You're the one who looks like he's ready to collapse. Come on, I'll help you up the stairs and if you kiss me nicely I'll even scrub your back for you."

"That sounds good." He kissed Charlie, trying to let his lover know just how much he meant to him. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," Charlie replied, his voice soft and warm.

They climbed the stairs, slowly, and Rory smiled to himself. Everything was going to be all right after all.

It had to be.

  



	5. Therapy

**5.1 -- Immediate Denial**

_Friday 12th March 2004_

When Dr McKenzie suggested that Charlie undergo psychological counselling to help him get over his addiction, Rory had been all in favour of it: Charlie had had some traumatic experiences and anything that stopped him having nightmares was good. When she suggested that Charlie join a narcotics support group, Rory had been a little less enthusiastic, since it meant either eating into their precious evenings together or allowing Charlie travel about on his own, but he could see the value if it helped to keep Charlie off the heroin. When she sent Charlie out of the room and then suggested that Rory needed counselling himself, however, he thought she'd gone too far, and said so in no uncertain tones.

"I'm not daft. I don't need a bloody shrink!"

"I'm not saying you are. And I'm not suggesting a psychiatrist, but a psychologist."

"There's no difference."

"Oh, but there is, Mr McManus. A psychiatrist deals with diseases of the mind, medical conditions that generally require medical treatments. A psychologist, on the other hand, helps people deal with mental and emotional injuries."

"I don't need it."

"I think you do."

"I'm fine as I am."

"But you and Charlie as a couple aren't. There are always underlying issues in any relationship, and I think that it would help Charlie if you were to see someone."

"What issues? I don't have any issues."

"Both of you coming to terms with what happened last year, for a start."

"There's no need to 'come to terms' with it, as you put it. It happened, that's all. Now he's back with me and he's off the heroin and that's all there is to it."

"Mr McManus, there is a lot more to it than that, and I suspect that you know it all too well. You are not a stupid man, and I'm sure that you will acknowledge that there are things that you and Charlie are deliberately not talking about. That can be very destructive."

He stared at her, aghast. Was the woman a mind-reader? Did she have the slightest suspicion of what had happened two weeks ago? Had Charlie suspected something? Had they been discussing him behind his back? He was present for every appointment, but she might well have spoken to Charlie on the phone, or asked him to come into her surgery at a time when Rory was working.

She must have read his mind. "No, I haven't been prying, that's just based on my observations and my experience." She fiddled with a pen on the desk and leaned forward. "You must understand that Charlie is going to be an addict for a long time, no matter that we have substituted methadone for heroin. There are many stresses in his life at the moment, and one of them is his relationship with you."

"How can it be a stress? I'm supporting him—I'm doing everything for him!"

"Exactly." She looked at him sternly. "Just from having observed the two of you over the last couple of months, I have some serious concerns about you, and I can see that there is a need for intervention. For one thing, Charlie is losing the capacity to think and act for himself."

"What?"

"You bring him to every appointment, and sit here with him, as if he were a child."

"That's because he's lost his licence. If I didn't bring him, he wouldn't be able to get here."

"There are buses and taxis in Manchester," she pointed out. "But that is only one item of several that are worrying me. When I ask him questions, you answer. When I suggest something to him, he looks at you, and you make the decision. That is not healthy, and it isn't helping him to get better."

Rory's temper was rising fast. After all that had happened—after all he'd done to keep Charlie safe—it was inconceivable that anyone could think he wasn't looking after him. He had to make her understand. He had to make her see that he was right. "That's because his decisions led us into this mess. I look after him. He knows that."

"I know you do. But he's not a child or an imbecile. He has to make his own decisions, even if sometimes they are the wrong ones. Everyone makes mistakes, Mr McManus. We have to learn to accept that and deal with the consequences."

"I'm not going to let him make mistakes."

"If he doesn't make mistakes, he can't learn."

"He doesn't need to learn. As far as I'm concerned, all his decisions are crap and I won't allow that. I'm not going to let him go back on the heroin. And I'm not going to let him leave." With that, he got to his feet and turned to go.

"It's not about him leaving -" she began, but Rory was already halfway to the door.

He left the room, slamming the door behind him, so filled with anger that he grabbed Charlie—who was waiting by the reception desk—by the elbow and dragged him out to the car park.

"What the fuck have you been telling her about me?"

"Nothing!"

"Then what was she talking about?"

"I don't know. What did she say?"

Rory shook his head: he couldn't even formulate the words to express his anger. He wanted to get out of there as fast as possible, to distance himself from anyone who might think that he wasn't looking after Charlie perfectly.

He fumed in silence the whole of the way home, ignoring Charlie's increasingly anxious questions and gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

How dare she suggest that he wasn't looking after Charlie? He looked after Charlie just fine. He housed him; he fed him; he clothed him; he protected him and kept him safe. He'd fucking killed for Charlie. He wasn't going to let anyone or anything get between them now.

He pulled up at the flat and waited for Charlie to get out, but Charlie didn't move.

"What's wrong, Rory? You have to tell me."

He shook his head. He was still too angry to speak.

"I'm not getting out until you tell me."

Rory gritted his teeth. Fucking Charlie and his fucking demands, he just couldn't cope with that right now.

"Later," was all he managed to say, halfway between a growl and a snarl. "Just ... later."

Charlie looked mulish, but eventually got out of the car. Rory drove off almost before the door had closed, taking the long way around to work, trying to give himself time to think.

By the time he got to work he had decided that the doctor was mistaken and put all thoughts of her and her suggestions to the back of his mind. There were too many jobs to oversee and too many people to intimidate for him to have any thought to spare for stupid ideas like hers.

He strode into his office and called for Ken. He was going to work off his temper on a few clients.

~~~~~

So deeply had he buried that morning's argument that it came as a shock to him to find the flat dark and empty when he got home that evening.

"Charlie?"

There was no answer. He looked briefly through the flat, but there was no one home. No note on the table, nothing to indicate that Charlie had just stepped out for something.

Charlie had gone again.

Rory sat on the stairs, his head in his hand, and wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do now. He'd driven Charlie away, just as the doctor had predicted, and it hurt; it hurt so much he couldn't bear it. He'd said that he wouldn't let Charlie go, not ever, but how could he stop him without turning into a monster like Tuomi? How could he keep Charlie safe without destroying him? It was a nightmare of a problem, and he had no fucking idea what to do.

It seemed like forever, bu in reality he couldn't have sat there for more than a couple of minutes before he heard hurried footsteps in the corridor and a fumbling of keys at the lock.

Charlie stepped in, breathless and anxious.

"Sorry, I got caught up at Mum's. She gave me a lift back but the traffic was murder."

Traffic.

Charlie hadn't left him, he'd just gone to see him Mum like a good son, and was late because of traffic. It was such a mundane alternative to the tragedy he had been picturing in his mind that he had to laugh.

"I thought you'd left again," he said, standing up and pulling Charlie into a hug.

"Idiot. I'm not going to leave you, even if you are being a complete prat."

"You should have phoned."

Charlie looked embarrassed. "I forgot to charge it. And I hoped I'd make it back before you did, anyway."

"I was worried."

"I'm sorry, I'll try not to be late again."

He nodded, burying his face in Charlie's shoulder and inhaling deeply. Charlie's unique scent always soothed him; made him feel secure and grounded.

Charlie was his and he was Charlie's, and there was no real problem between them, whatever the doctor thought. Charlie wasn't going to leave; Charlie was going to stay with him until they were both old and grey and arthritic, and even then he had no doubt that his lover would find new and interesting ways to have sex.

"I love you," he whispered, hoping that Charlie would respond as he usually did.

"I love you too," Charlie whispered back, and Rory let himself relax a little more. As long as Charlie didn't ask about what had happened that morning, all would be well.

They stood there for a few seconds longer, until Charlie straightened up. "What do you want for dinner, love? I haven't cooked but there's casserole in the freezer, or we could dial out."

"What do you want to eat?"

"I'm not fussy, whatever you choose is fine."

"Casserole it is, then."

They moved through to the kitchen, and Rory watched while Charlie got the food out of the freezer and put it in the microwave oven. He knew it was silly, but he didn't want to let Charlie out of his sight. It was always the same whenever he had had a shock: he clung to Charlie like a drowning man to a lifeline, and couldn't let him go. He had to watch Charlie, had to make sure that he wouldn't disappear if he closed his eyes.

And now that the initial panic was over, he could see that it wasn't healthy, this obsession with Charlie. He couldn't go through the rest of his life getting into a flat spin every time Charlie was late, or let his mobile run down, or went to see his mum. He had to get a bit more control back. He had to stop needing Charlie so much.

~~~~~

He spent the weekend watching Charlie, watching him wake up and dress and cook and eat and sleep. Now that his attention had been drawn to it, he could see that the doctor had a point about Charlie not making decisions—Charlie deferred to him in almost everything, from dawn to dusk. Everything was left up to Rory: all the meals; the outings; the phone calls to friends ... Charlie really didn't make any decisions at all. In fact, when he reviewed the last few weeks, he couldn't remember any time that Charlie had made a decision on his own since he had returned.

If he was honest with himself, he had half-known already that something was wrong. He'd had a vague feeling of unease, but it had never been strong enough to identify properly, and he wasn't one to sit and analyse his own feelings for hours on end. If he'd thought about it at all, he'd put it down to Charlie's continued dependence on methadone and the residual trauma from his experiences with Tuomi. Now, though, he could see that it was more profound, and more disturbing.

It annoyed him that he hadn't realised it earlier. He was good at noticing things—seeing what made people feel uncomfortable, what made them nervous, what made them lose their focus. It was what made him so good at his job, finding the one pressure point that made people cave in to him.

He was good at reading people, so why had he not read Charlie correctly?

For the first time, he wondered if perhaps the doctor had been right, and that was a frightening thought.

  
 _Sunday 14th March 2004_

On Sunday, they went to Meg's for lunch. It was only three weeks until Meg's birthday in April, and as they were getting into the car, Rory took the opportunity to test Charlie by asking him what they ought to get her for a present.

Charlie hesitated. "I don't know," he said, finally. "What do you think?"

"She's your mother. You should choose."

Charlie bit his lip. "Do you think she might like some flowers?" he asked eventually.

"I thought she'd prefer something a bit more permanent."

"What?"

Rory sighed. "Maybe a book."

Charlie nodded, his face betraying the relief he obviously felt. "Yes, she'd probably like that."

"So what book should we get her?"

"What?"

"What particular book do you think she'd like?"

"Oh ... I don't know. A cookery book maybe? Whatever you choose will be good. It's the thought that counts, right?"

Rory sighed again and gave up for the moment.

Lunch went well, with most of the discussion centred around the terrible bombing in Madrid a few days before. When Meg had served coffee and gone back to the kitchen to sort out the dishes, Rory followed her and quietly closed the door behind him.

"Meg, can I talk to you?"

"Of course, dear. What's wrong?"

"Would you say that Charlie has changed a lot since he went away?"

"Well of course he has, he's been through some difficult times in the last year or two."

"Do you think he's more indecisive? More hesitant?"

She thought about that for a moment. "Now that you mention it, yes, he is a bit unsure of himself, a bit hesitant sometimes. But that's only to be expected after all that's happened."

"I think it's a bit more serious than that."

"In what way?"

He paused, trying to think of the best way to put it into words. "He won't make decisions."

"What sort of decisions?"

"Any decisions. I ask him what he wants to eat and he says he'll have whatever I choose. I suggest a couple of films and he says he'll watch whatever I want to see. Sometimes he'll even ask me which jumper to wear in the morning."

"He's always been guided by you."

"Aye, but he used to have opinions of his own. We used to have arguments sometimes."

Meg chuckled. "Are you saying you want him to argue with you?"

Rory had to smile back. "No, but I want to know he's thinking for himself."

"Rory, dear, you've always been the dominant one in the relationship. Maybe Charlie needs that right now."

He frowned. Why could Meg not see that it was more than that? "When he came back, yes, he needed me to look after him and do everything for him. He wasn't well and he'd been badly frightened. But that was three months ago now, he should be getting better. He should be wanting to do more instead of sitting at home all day waiting for me."

"Well, he can't drive yet."

"That never stopped him before. Don't get me wrong—I'm happy for him to be home, I know he's safe then. I'd worry if he were out all day. But it's more that he doesn't want to go out. I ask him if he wants to be dropped anywhere after his methadone and he just says he wants to go home. He doesn't go anywhere."

"He sees me."

"But nothing apart from that."

"Hmm." Meg looked out of the window for a few minutes. "I think you're right, you know. He's become very passive."

"Aye."

"And the fact that you've always been the dominant one has probably contributed to that. You've always told him what to do, more or less." She looked up at him a little anxiously, as if she wasn't sure how he'd react to that.

"Aye," he said quietly. Now that he'd been able to think about it for a couple of days, he didn't have the same angry reaction he'd had on Friday with the doctor. "He needs me, he's crap at living on his own. But I don't want him to be passive. I'm happy to support him and look out for him, but I don't want him to be completely dependent on me. I want him to be with me because he wants to be, not because he's got nowhere else to go."

"I'm sure he does want to be with you. He talks about you all the time when he's with me."

"Really?" he asked, almost ashamed of himself for seeking the reassurance.

"Really." She smiled back. "He loves you and he needs you too."

"I ... I ... " It was no good, he couldn't say it, he couldn't say the words out loud. No matter how much he admitted to himself that he needed Charlie, he couldn't tell Meg. He couldn't admit that much weakness.

"It's all right, dear," she said, patting his arm. "I understand."

He grinned ruefully at her. "Thanks."

The door opened suddenly, and Charlie came in. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, we're just chatting," his mother replied.

Charlie looked suspiciously at them both. "About me?"

"Aye, of course about you," Rory said with a snort. "There's no other possible subject of conversation in the entire world."

"Hmm." Charlie looked from one to the other, but didn't press the point. "Dad wants another coffee."

"Of course, dear," said Meg, turning to fill the kettle. "Tell him I'll bring it through as soon as it's made."

Rory allowed himself to be dragged back to the living room and made no further attempt to get Meg on her own. The fact that she, too, considered Charlie passive and indecisive had given him enough to think about for the time being.

~~~~~

That evening, while Charlie watched TV, Rory watched Charlie. He looked at his lover and considered the problem of their relationship and how it might be on the road to disaster. Specifically, if the doctor had been right about Charlie being too dependent on him, might she also have been right about him needing therapy himself?

He wasn't mad or a junkie or a pathetic loser. He was sure in his own mind that he didn't need anyone to tell him what to do or how to live his life. He just needed to be sure that he wasn't going to lose Charlie, that was all. Answering questions about his childhood and upbringing would only lead to trouble, he was sure.

He knew only too well that he hadn't had an ideal upbringing. His mother had been ill for years before her death, his father had first bullied him and then rejected him, and most of his friends had become rivals or had died in violence. He'd had a few close shaves with gangs and police, and counted himself lucky that he hadn't ended up in prison the one time he'd been arrested. He was tough, and he was self-sufficient, and he could survive just about anything that life could throw at him ... except losing Charlie again. It wasn't the sort of thing a grown man liked to admit, but he knew it in his heart. Charlie was his life.

They'd never been a typical couple, gay or otherwise. Well, when you matched a rock star with a loan shark there was no way that it was ever going to be average. They'd come a long way since that day, nearly five years ago, when Charlie had come into his life so tumultuously. Their relationship had started in pain and fear and lust, but very soon love had taken over, even if it had taken them months—years—to acknowledge it. They'd been good together, until the heroin had taken Charlie away from him, and he was determined to make their relationship work again, better and stronger than ever before.

He thought again about what the doctor had said, that the balance of power had been upset. In one way, she was right. He knew he made most of the decisions, but that was simply how it had always been. Frankly, in spite of the fact that he had left school before Highers while Charlie had gone to university, Rory knew he was the more intelligent one. He'd had little difficulty in doing a small business course a few years ago, and he read far more widely than Charlie did. He knew more, he managed money better, and he had more common sense. He liked being in charge and he didn't cope well with other people telling him what to do; he never had done. He needed to be the one in charge.

Charlie ... well, Charlie was the flighty one, the dramatic one, the one who always had trouble making up his mind and demanded attention—Rory didn't call him "Princess" for nothing. But in previous years, Charlie had never hesitated to voice his opinion: to disagree or suggest changes when he wanted to. There had been some spirited arguments, over the time they'd been together, and Rory hadn't always won. Charlie had been an equal partner—and while Rory had felt annoyed with him sometimes, and had wished for him to be more biddable, he didn't want yet another employee. He wanted a partner. He wanted a life partner.

Life partner. Well. That thought almost shocked him. Life partner sounded so ... well, _permanent_. But he'd read about the upcoming Civil Partnerships Bill in the news, so the thought must have been mulling around in the back of his mind for a while. If the bill went through, then gay couples would be able to have a form of marriage, a legal arrangement that would give them some of the same rights and protections as married couples had. That would be worth having. That would be worth having with Charlie, to have a legal bond that held them together.

He sighed. A civil partnership with Charlie would likely send his father into orbit. He knew that his da was still clinging on to the hope that it was just a phase, and that Rory would come back to Glasgow one day with a wee wifey and a couple of children. Well, that just wasn't going to happen. Eventually, father or no father, he was going to have some sort of marriage with Charlie. It was just a matter of when.

In order for that to happen, though, he would have to ensure that they stayed together until the Bill was passed and his father dead or reconciled, and that meant that he had to do whatever was needed to help Charlie get better—even if that meant taking the doctor's suggestion seriously.

Maybe he ought to talk to Meg again. She was the only one he could turn to for advice, and, if he were honest, probably the only person from whom he would take advice, particularly in such a personal matter as this.

Yes, he'd talk to Meg.

  
 **5.2 -- After Due Consideration**

_Tuesday 16th March 2004_

Rory rang the doorbell and waited for Meg to answer it. He had deliberately organised to see her at a time when Charlie would believe him to be at the office, and felt slightly guilty at the clandestine arrangement, but he needed to talk with her alone and uninterrupted, and that just couldn't be achieved when the rest of the family was around.

"How are you dear?" she asked, ushering him inside and closing the door against the bitter wind. "Take your coat off and then come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea. It's cold this morning, isn't it?"

"Aye, that wind's a shocker."

He took off his overcoat and hung it on one of the hooks in the hall, then went through and sat down at the kitchen table. He knew better than to offer his help—Meg was mistress in her own kitchen and didn't appreciate help unless she was overrun—but waited patiently until they both had steaming mugs of tea in front of them.

"Now, dear, what is the problem?"

"Charlie."

"Oh dear. What is it this time? Is he having problems with the methadone?"

"No, no, he's fine with that, honestly." He frowned. "It isn't anything he's done, precisely. I told you the doctor's worried about him."

"Yes, you mentioned that."

"I've been watching him, and she was right about that. He can't make decisions, even little ones."

Meg nodded and waited.

Rory gritted his teeth and continued. "And if she was right about that, maybe she was right about ... other things."

"What other things, dear?"

He gripped the handle of his mug so tightly that the knuckles went white. "The doctor said ... she wants ... "

"Yes, dear?"

Rory took a deep breath. He could do this. He could tell Meg what it was the doctor wanted. "She doesn't think that Charlie seeing his therapist is enough. She wants me to see a psychologist."

"Well, that sounds like a sensible idea. You are both part of the relationship, and issues are rarely limited to one partner." She sounded quite matter-of-fact about it, as if people getting referred to therapists was an everyday matter. Well, she was a nurse, so maybe for her, it was.

"I'm not psychotic."

"No, you're not, and you wouldn't get referred to a psychologist if you were anyway. Psychologists don't see people with mental diseases, they see normal people who are having problems."

"I don't have problems."

"Rory, love, you spent ten minutes in here on Sunday telling me that Charlie had problems. You two are a partnership. That means if one of you has problems, then so does the other one."

"I can handle them."

"Maybe you can, but sometimes that isn't the best way. Sometimes we get so stuck in a rut, so used to dealing with things in one particular way, that we can't see when the situation changes. People change as they grow older, as they accumulate more experiences, and partners have to change with them, otherwise they drift apart."

"I don't want to change."

"I'm not saying that you have to change a lot, dear, just enough to keep up with the way Charlie is changing."

"But why does it have to be a shrink?"

"Stop thinking of a psychologist as a shrink—it's not even accurate. Think of it more as ... as a physiotherapist for the mind. Imagine that you've developed a muscular problem, and it's affecting the way you walk. It doesn't mean you're a cripple. You don't need surgery or a long course of medication, but you do need a little help to work out the kinks and stretch it and reduce the pain. Well, that's what a psychologist does, he or she helps you to ease the problem so that you can get through the day more easily."

There was a long silence as Rory considered what she had just said. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"I always find it helps to put things another way—gives patients a new perspective on their problems."

"I suppose it does."

"You still don't feel very comfortable about it, do you."

"No. It's not normal, to need help."

"Everyone needs help from time to time."

"Real men don't."

Meg snorted. "Oh, don't start that, please. Real men see psychologists if they need it and they don't spend hours worrying that their friends might think them cissies."

"They do if they're from Glasgow. My Da would have a fit if he thought I was seeing a shrink."

"Rory, it's not a shrink, and your father doesn't have to know."

"He'll find out."

"Does that worry you?"

Rory thought about that. "Aye, it does."

"What would he do?"

"I don't know."

"Would he take the business away from you?"

Rory shrugged. "Don't know. He might."

"Could you make a living without it?"

He shook his head. "I'd have to get a job somewhere. Wouldn't get very far, either, not with my history."

"You've done well with the business, though, Mike says you've expanded quite a lot in the last couple of years."

"Aye, we have, but m'Da still owns it all."

"Mike has a lot of contacts, I'm sure he'd help if it were necessary."

Rory had to smile at that: the thought of Mike putting himself out to find Rory a job was very amusing. "I won't put him to the trouble."

"Well, I don't think it will be necessary," Meg smiled back at him. "Seriously, love, I know you don't talk about your Dad very often, but I have got the feeling that he doesn't approve of you being gay either. Would seeing a psychologist be so much worse than that?"

Rory thought about that for a long time. It had been a long time since his father had beaten him up for going to a gay bar in Birmingham and 'shaming' the family, but he could still remember the pain. But his father hadn't done anything since then, and Rory could only hope that if he ever found out, he would take this latest failing in his stride. "I don't know. I really don't know."

"Well, look at it from another angle then. If you and Charlie stay together, at least you can hold your head up and show him you've made a success of the relationship. If you separate, then it gives him another weapon to use against you."

"Aye, I know that much." He did too. Frank had made his feelings clear on that subject the year before, when Charlie had disappeared, and his malicious amusement at Rory's expense hadn't helped one little bit. On the other hand, Rory had managed to show him that he could still increase the profits, regardless of his personal happiness, and when you came down to it, that was all that Frank cared about. If Frank was prepared to turn a blind eye to his orientation as long as he kept the business in the black, then maybe Frank wouldn't care all that much if he was seeing a therapist.

Meg placed her empty mug carefully on the table. "Rory ... none of the children know this, but Mike and I nearly separated when they were young. We saw a counsellor for nearly a year."

Rory looked up in surprise. He certainly hadn't expected her to say anything like that.

"It was a long time ago. It was a difficult time for us, as a couple. Liam was the only one in school, Charlie and Tessa were still at home. I'd just found out I was pregnant again, with Biddy. I'd lost a baby the year before, and I still wasn't very strong, and finding out I was pregnant again seemed like the end of the world."

"I'm sorry." It was the only thing he could think of to say, despite the banality.

Meg gave him a watery smile and reached for a tissue. "It's all right, as I said, it was a long time ago. Anyway, Mike ... Mike had a young receptionist at the time. I don't suppose I need to say any more. I found out about it the same week I found I was pregnant, and it floored me; it totally devastated me. We almost split up at that point. In fact I'm sure we would have, but my sister came over from Belfast and helped me for several weeks. I'd been ordered bed rest, so she got us some home help, and organised for us to see a marriage counsellor, through the church. We saw him every week for months, even after Biddy was born. Mike hated it at first, but even he came around in the end. It took us a long time to work out what our problems really were, and even longer for us to really get back together, but we made it in the end.

"I'm not telling you this to put Mike in a bad light—it certainly wasn't all his fault. I know he's not the easiest man to live with, but I'm not the easiest woman either, and I do love him."

"I know you do," murmured Rory, though he was deeply embarrassed by the intimate revelations.

"Well, what I'm trying to say is that everyone needs help occasionally. It doesn't mean you're weak or abnormal, or psychotic. It just means that you need a different point of view, another voice to help you on your way. That's all."

Rory nodded. Paradoxically, the story she had just told had helped. If Meg—who was one of the strongest people he knew—could admit to seeing a therapist without shame, then perhaps it wasn't such a big deal. Though it was quite possible that Mike wouldn't look at it the same way.

"Would you like another cup of tea, dear?" asked Meg.

Rory smiled at her. "No, thanks, I'd better get back to the office." He stood up as he spoke, and Meg did as well.

"Did I help?"

"Yes, you helped a lot. Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear. You know you've always been like a son to me, I'm glad that you feel you can come to me for advice."

"You've been more of a mother to me than mine ever was." He felt a pang of disloyalty to his mother as he spoke the words, but he couldn't deny the truth of them: Meg truly was the mother he had never had.

Meg's eyes misted over with tears again, and Rory hugged her tightly.

"Now, back to the office with you. And don't forget to come over for lunch on Sunday."

"Maybe we should invite you to our place instead."

"Well, maybe you should. It would do Charlie good to have something to plan for."

"It would. He'd have to pick a menu, for a start."

"I'll talk to him later; we'll work something out."

"Sounds good."

He donned his coat and stepped out into the bitter March wind. He'd be glad to get back to the office, where all the problems could be reduced to pounds and pence. 

_Friday 19 March 2004_

It was with a heavy heart that he went to the next appointment with the doctor. This time it was Rory who asked Charlie to step out of the room for a moment. He waited until the door had closed before turning back to the doctor.

"I've been thinking about what you said last week," he ventured, his voice low.

"And?"

He shrugged. "Charlie is having problems. I talked with Meg, his mother, and she agrees. And I've been testing him this week and it's true, he can't make decisions at all, he just lets me decide things."

"Are you happy with that?"

Rory shrugged again. "I've always made most of the decisions anyway, that's just how we are, but he's never been so passive before. And I know he still needs looking after, he'd have real problems if I weren't here."

The doctor nodded understandingly. "I'm not saying he wouldn't. But sooner or later he has to start making choices, making mistakes and learning how to cope with them again." She paused and fiddled with some papers on the desk before continuing.

"The dynamics of any relationship involving an addict are very important, and in situations like this it is quite common—and quite natural, I might add—for the relationship to become unbalanced. In the short term, particularly in situations when the addict requires a lot of care, that can be a good thing. For example, Charlie really did need you to make the appropriate decisions for him back in January, when you called me and made him start methadone."

Rory nodded and relaxed a little. It was good to know that he had been doing the right thing.

"But when the imbalance in the relationship persists, that's when problems can develop, as you are finding out now. To redress that balance, changes must be made on both sides, and that means that both of you need counselling."

Rory grimaced. "What happens if I don't?"

"Then there is a real chance that even if Charlie remains free of drugs, your relationship will become more and more unbalanced and will fail."

Rory frowned. He really didn't want to think about that possibility. He felt that he had only ever been happy since meeting Charlie, and the year without him had been hellish. He couldn't survive losing Charlie again.

"Can't I just change things myself? Push Charlie to make decisions?"

"But if you're pushing him, that means you're still telling him what to do. The whole point is to give him the confidence to make decisions without being prompted—and for you to have the confidence to accept his decisions ... even if they are wrong."

Rory thought about that for a minute. It was true that he had no confidence at all in Charlie's capacity to make decisions—let alone make the right decision—at the moment.

"What would you do if Charlie made a decision you didn't agree with? For example, what if Charlie decided to leave for a while?"

Rory felt his fists clench. "He can't leave."

"If he can't get better while he's with you—if you can't give him the room to heal—then he may have to."

"So if I see the counsellor, we'll stay together, and if I don't he'll leave me?"

She sighed. "I wish it were that simple. I can't give you any guarantees, Mr McManus. It's not a black-and-white situation. I can say that if you don't see a counsellor, your relationship will get more and more unbalanced. Remember, that one of the pillars of therapy is making Charlie take responsibility for his own actions. If you insist on doing everything for him—or if he manipulates you into doing everything for him—that will directly undermine the therapy and create significant tensions between you."

"What will the therapist want to talk about?"

"That will depend on what comes up."

Rory frowned. There was far too much in his life that he would much prefer never 'came up' in conversation. He'd have to be on his guard every moment.

"I do suggest that you are completely honest with the counsellor. He or she can only work with the information you give, and if you keep things hidden, it will distort that information and reduce the efficacy of the therapy."

And that was a veiled threat if he'd ever heard one. He couldn't really begrudge her making the effort to ensure his compliance with the treatment she thought he needed, but it didn't make it any easier on him. It still meant that if the therapy failed, he would be the one who was blamed, simply because he wasn't as open as Charlie was.

Rory thought about it for a couple of minutes. He didn't want Charlie's therapy to fail, but on the other hand he really didn't want to answer probing questions about his private life and his parents and the way he ran his business. He couldn't afford to open up to a stranger—there was too much risk of saying something about the various things he had done over the years, and that could lead to big trouble. But he didn't want to risk losing Charlie, either.

"I'll think about it," he said, finally.

"Thank you, I'm sure you'll make the right decision."

He left the surgery in a pensive mood. Charlie was waiting for him and they walked out to the car.

"What did she want to talk to you about?" asked Charlie.

Rory hesitated. He didn't want to tell Charlie, but he wouldn't put it past Dr McKenzie to mention it at the next visit anyway, and that would be much worse. "She thinks I should be seeing a counsellor as well."

"Whatever for?"

Well, that was reassuring: at least Charlie didn't think he was crazy. He shrugged. "She said it's better for our relationship, to make sure that things go well."

"Well, that sort of makes sense."

"Maybe."

Charlie laughed. "It's not so bad, honestly."

"You complain about it all the time."

"Yeah, but that's just to make you feel guilty and want to make things up to me."

Rory had to laugh at Charlie's ingenuous confession. "Is that so?"

"Well, sometimes. Most of the time it's not so bad. Just sometimes, when she gets into things I don't really want to talk about, it can get a bit uncomfortable. But then she says that it's the uncomfortable things that are the most important for therapy, otherwise we might just as well be chatting about the weather." He shrugged. "I can sort of see her point."

"Aye, I guess so." It didn't give him much comfort though.

Charlie gave him a quick hug. "You'll get used to it, honestly. And, you know ... I know it's not easy at the moment. Looking after me, I mean. The methadone and the support group and the doctor and the therapist ... we never go out anywhere except to Mum's, and that's not exactly a laugh a minute either. It's got to be getting you down."

"I'm fine."

Charlie looked at him, a little apprehensively. "Don't you ever get sick of it? Wish I hadn't come back?"

Rory rounded on him with a ferocity that surprised even himself. "No! And don't you ever think that! Ever!"

Charlie looked quite alarmed, and Rory forced himself to calm down. "I ... you must never think I don't want you. The chemist, the appointments ... they're nothing. You're the important thing. You're here, with me. Everything else is just ... " voice trailed off,

"Chicken feed?"

It wasn't the right word, but it was close enough. "Aye, if you like. Not worth bothering about."

"You know, it's a real shame we're standing here in a public car park."

"Why is that?"

"Because I really, really want to kiss you right now."

Rory looked at him sternly. "Not in public."

"I know, I know," Charlie responded, slightly sad, but accepting Rory's rules with more grace than he normally did.

"But we can be home in ten minutes."

Rory unlocked the car and smiled as Charlie's eyes lit up. The office could wait another hour or so.

  



	6. Performer

**6.1 -- Routine Enquiries**

_Monday 22nd March 2004_

The intercom buzzed at a few minutes after ten. Charlie picked up the handset, wondering who it might be—the cleaner still came on a Wednesday and as far as he knew his mother was working that day.

"Hello?" he ventured.

"Mr Charles Pace?"

"Yes?" he answered, feeling a little apprehensive. No one he knew called him Charles, so his visitors had to be someone official.

"It's Detective Sergeant Bairnsfather from Bury CID. I wondered if we might have a few words."

Police? What on earth could they want? The tone was friendly, but the words made him anxious. He wondered if he'd missed some sort of follow-up with the courts—it was six months since he'd been a given a suspended sentence, and he didn't think there had been anything about reporting in to police or a probation officer or anything, but his memory was pretty hazy for a lot of last year and he might have forgotten something. Surely his mum would have reminded him? At least he could show that he was still getting his methadone every day, thank goodness, and that ought to count for a lot.

Well, there was no use putting them off. "Of course, come up," he said, and pressed the button to let them into the building. He used the short interval while they climbed the stairs in rushing around the living room, clearing away empty cups, crumpled newspapers and stray items of clothing. There were crumbs on the floor but there was nothing he could do about that.

There was a knock at the door and he went to open it. Too late, he wondered if perhaps they weren't actually police but rivals of Rory's, come to settle a score, real or imagined. They might be from one of the people he'd stolen from last year. Or even—horror of horrors—Tuomi himself, come to finish what he'd started back in London. Nightmare scenarios rushed through his mind and he kicked himself for not having asked for identification details before letting them into the building.

He checked the spyhole in the door and was somewhat reassured. The two men who stood there were clearly police in spite of their plain clothes: Charlie had learned how to spot them early on in his drug-taking days and couldn't mistake them for anything else. He opened the door. The elder of the two held up his identification card, and Charlie cast a quick eye over it. It looked real to him, and so did the one held up by the other man—Johnson, Simon, Detective Constable.

"Come in," he said, holding the door open for them. "It's cold out there, would you like a cup of tea or coffee?" There was no harm in being polite, after all, and they didn't look too threatening. In fact they looked positively friendly, especially in comparison with various others of their kind he'd met in the previous eighteen months.

"Thank you, that's very kind of you. Tea, white and two," replied Bairnsfather.

"Same for me," added Johnson.

"Take a seat, I'll just be a couple of minutes," Charlie said as he ushered them into the living room. He forced himself to take a couple of slow, deep breaths as he filled the kettle and got out the teabags. They weren't here to arrest him—they'd have been much more stern if they were, and would probably have done it immediately. They wouldn't have accepted tea, he was sure of that.

Comforted by that thought, he made the tea and took the mugs into the living room.

"Here you are, gentlemen." He handed one to each of them and picked up his own half-drunk coffee from the table. "What can I do for you?"

Bairnsfather took a sip of tea and smiled. "Lovely, that." He nodded to Johnson, who set his mug down after an initial gulp and took out his notebook and a biro. "It's just a routine matter, sir, following up some lines of enquiry for our colleagues in London."

"Oh?"

"I believe you were acquainted with a Finnish national working in London, a Mr Tuomi Saastimoinen."

Charlie tensed in sudden fright. He'd got over his initial terror that it might be Tuomi at the door, and now they wanted to talk about him? Had Tuomi reported his theft to the police? It would be unlikely, after all this time, but not impossible. Maybe Tuomi had tried to search for him and failed, and now resorted to the police to do his dirty work for him. Maybe Tuomi wanted him locked up in prison where, no doubt, he had friends who would torment him. Maybe Tuomi just wanted him found so that he could come and kill him.

He didn't have time to think about it further: the police wanted an answer and the longer he hesitated, the more guilty they would think him. He tried to pick his words carefully. "I met him a few times last year, when I was living in London. Clubs, parties, that sort of thing." He shrugged. "I meet a lot of people."

"How well did you know him?"

"Not well at all." And yet, in some ways, very well indeed. Well enough to feel apprehensive about any mention of his name or any connection between the two of them.

"What was the nature of your relationship?"

Charlie clenched his teeth. His relationship with Tuomi was not something that he wanted to talk about: not about the drugs and definitely not about the time he'd spent locked up in Tuomi's flat. He felt a strong urge to deny any sort of relationship at all, but he had no idea what the police knew about him from other sources, and the closer he stuck to the truth the safer he would be—within reason, of course. "I wouldn't call it a relationship. I had a few drinks with him, that's all."

"Are you sure that's all?"

Fuck, he had better admit the drugs, it wasn't as if he'd been dealing them himself, and they had no evidence to get him on using. "He sold me some drugs a couple of times. I was still on heroin at the time. I'm on methadone now, a registered addict."

"Yes, we are aware of your record. And we know that he was a drug dealer. Did you buy from him frequently?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, he wasn't my regular dealer, I just bought from him a couple of times when I saw him at clubs."

"Did you ever see him outside the clubs?"

"Why? What's this all about?"

"All in good time, sir. Did you know any of his friends or associates?"

"No, there were always people with him but I didn't know any of them. I don't remember if he introduced them—he might have, but I've forgotten the names."

"Do you know who his supplier was?"

"No idea. Sorry." He had had his suspicions, as they all had. Most people Charlie had talked to thought Tuomi's supplier was a Russian gangster, one of the new oligarchs who'd taken up residence in Mayfair but maintained connections to southern Russia and the countries that bordered Afghanistan. Charlie had never been able to get any confirmation of that, and since he'd been stoned most of the time he hadn't made any real effort to find out. With the Russians, it was better not to know.

"Do you know any of his other clients?"

"No." That wasn't quite true: he knew a couple of names, but he wasn't going to get them in trouble. Most of them had been people like himself, ordinary people who'd lost their jobs and homes because of drugs. They didn't need the police hassling them on top of everything else, driving them out of the squats they'd found and making their lives even harder than they already were.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"December," he stated, feeling a sense of relief that at least he could answer one question without hedging. "End of the year—29th? 30th? Just before New Year's Eve, anyway. Why? What's he done?"

Bairnsfather looked at him carefully. "He hasn't done much of anything lately, I'm afraid. His body was found last week in London."

Charlie jumped slightly and stared at them. Tuomi was dead? On the one hand he felt hugely relieved that Tuomi was dead and couldn't come after him, but on the other he knew that he had a very unsavoury history with the man and he suspected that the police were going to be delving into matters that he would much prefer were left alone. "I didn't know," he ventured. "I haven't had any contact with him at all since December."

Johnson noted that down solemnly.

"How did he die?" he asked.

"We believe he was murdered, Mr Pace." Bairnsfather's voice was solemn and his eyes seemed to be fixed on Charlie, watching him for any reaction.

"M-murdered?" He was feeling distinctly more uneasy now. He hadn't done it, of course, but if word got out about Tuomi keeping him prisoner he'd have a bloody good motive. Mind you, Tuomi being the sadistic prick that he was, there were probably loads of people who had a motive. He'd better concentrate on that and stop feeling guilty just because he'd been the victim.

"Yes, some weeks ago. Have you visited London at all in the last two months?"

"No. Not at all. I haven't been out of Manchester since I got back here at New Year."

"Can you prove that?"

Charlie thought frantically and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure. I've been reporting for my methadone every day though—except Sundays, they give me that dose on the Saturday."

"We'll check that out, if you don't mind."

He nodded and gave them the name and address of the pharmacist who dispensed his methadone.

"Do you have any idea who might have had a motive for killing him?"

Charlie shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't really know him all that well."

"Just how well did you know him, Mr Pace? And bear in mind that you aren't the only person we've been talking to about Mr Saastimoinen and his activities."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Bairnsfather's tone of voice made Charlie think that he knew exactly how well Charlie had known Tuomi—and exactly how intimate they had become. He wondered who had tipped them off—maybe one of the other dealers, maybe one of Tuomi's friends that he'd met at the club. He was feeling very uncomfortable, but he didn't hide the truth from them, not about something like this. They always checked things in a murder case; he didn't dare lie. "We ... " Oh sod this, why was it so fucking hard to say the fucking words? "We fucked a couple of times." There, he'd said it. He kept his gaze on the carpet and waited for their reaction.

Apart from the scratching sound of Johnson's biro over rough notepaper, there was none. He looked up at Bairnsfather to see neither disgust nor salacious interest, but instead a mild satisfaction, as if prior information had just been confirmed. Suddenly he was very, very glad indeed that he hadn't lied.

"You had a sexual relationship with him?"

"It wasn't a relationship."

"What was it then?"

"It was just a fuck."

"But more than one?"

"Yes, more than one."

"How many?"

"What the hell does it matter? Four, five maybe? No more than that."

"And always at clubs?"

Oh sod it, he'd been in the flat, they could have picked up some traces—skin, hair, fibres, that sort of thing. They already had his DNA on file from last year, it wouldn't be hard to get a match. How the hell could he prove he didn't do it if they wanted to pin it on him? "No, I went to his flat a couple of times."

"Was that a regular occurrence?"

"No."

"When was the last time you were at his flat?"

"December."

"Are you quite sure about that?"

"Yes, I am. Why?"

"A lot of things seemed to have happened to you in December."

"Yeah, it wasn't a good month for me."

"Was your leaving London connected with Mr Saastimoinen?"

"Yes."

"So you were in regular contact with him and then you left, is that right?"

Fuck this, Charlie was getting really sick of this line of questioning. "Look, he was ... he was into some stuff I didn't like, so I left. I never saw him again."

"But you had sex on more than one occasion?"

"He wasn't like that to start with. It was just a quick one at the club, nothing to get exciting about, he was just there. The first time at the flat, it was a bit ... well, forceful, but again, nothing really kinky or unusual about it." He tried to think of the best way of saying the rest and took a gulp from his coffee mug, only to find that it was empty. He set it down on the table. "It was only the last time he was violent."

"Violent?"

He nodded.

"He assaulted you?"

"Yeah, he ... " his voice trailed off. He hated thinking back to that time. He'd been working through it with his therapist but he was a long way off being over it, and the memories still had the power to make him feel sick and anxious. He felt slightly sweaty and ran a hand through his hair again—it was probably standing on end by now but he couldn't help that. "Sorry, it was a very bad time for me. I'm seeing a psychologist about it."

"That sounds fairly serious." Bairnsfather actually looked concerned, though Charlie had no idea if it was genuine or just an attempt to get more information from him.

He took a deep breath and counted to five, letting the picture consolidate in his mind but keeping a certain distance from it, as if he were viewing it through a pane of glass. It was a technique his therapist had taught him and he found it helpful. "He was angry with me. I had nicked something from his flat and sold it so I could buy drugs. He found me and took me back to his flat and tied me up. He hit me and ... well, fucked me. It hurt." There. The worst was over. "He left the flat, I got free, got my clothes and left. I was scared he was going to come after me again so I came back to Manchester. I've been here ever since."

He was starting to hyperventilate again and told himself to slow down, to count to five with each breath. He'd told them the facts and kept the worst of it to himself. That was good. If they could just stop the questions now and let him be, he'd feel a lot happier.

"Sorry," he repeated, feeling the need to excuse his display of emotion.

The room was quiet apart from the sound of his own breathing. Even Johnson had ceased his scribbling.

"Why didn't you report it at the time?" asked Bairnsfather at last.

"Because I just wanted to get away. I didn't want him to find me."

"Did you hit him back at all?"

"No. For fuck's sake, he's nearly a foot taller than me and built like a brick shithouse. If I'd hit him he'd have killed me. I just ran away." And no wonder he was in therapy, if he couldn't even defend himself or avenge the wrongs that someone had done to him. He was a useless failure as a man, just as his father said he was.

Bairnsfather, however, seemed to be surprisingly calm, though his expression was grim. "Well, someone obviously decided to hit back. Do you have any idea who that might have been?"

"No, sorry."

"Did you know any of his associates?"

"You asked that before."

"And now I'm asking again."

"No, I didn't know his associates. There were a couple of guys I met at the clubs who were with him, but I didn't know them. I didn't meet anyone at his flat, he was alone then."

There was a long pause as Johnson caught up with his writing.

"Is there anything else that you can tell us? Anyone you know who might have had a motive to kill him?"

"No. I'm glad he's dead but I don't know who did it, so I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

Bairnsfather finished his mug of tea and set it down. "Well, as I said, it was just a routine enquiry. But you've given us some useful information all the same. We may have some follow-up questions for you later."

Charlie nodded. There were always follow-up questions.

Bairnsfather stood up, followed rapidly by Johnson, who gulped down the last of his own drink. "Thank you for the tea, very welcome on a cold morning."

Charlie closed the door behind them and for the first time in weeks felt the desperate urge to have a hit, to feel the wonderful calming rush of heroin racing through his veins. After the emotional turmoil of the police interview he needed something to calm his nerves, and what his body wanted was heroin—not methadone, not that weak, smothering substitute, but the real thing, the spike, the blessed feeling of wholeness that he never found anywhere else, except maybe when Rory was fucking him.

Rory ... The thought of his lover brought him back to his senses. He had to ring Rory, tell him about the police visit. Rory would know what to do.

He dialled the number and concentrated on breathing slowly and calmly. Chris answered and put him through to Rory straight away.

"Hello, what's wrong?"

"The police have been here," Charlie blurted out in a rush. So much for being calm, he thought, he sounded like a hysterical kid.

"What did they want?"

"Tuomi—the guy I told you about, in London—he's been murdered."

"Has he now?"

"And they were asking me all sorts of questions."

"What questions? What did you tell them?"

Briefly, Charlie described the interview. After he finished, there was a long pause.

"Rory? Are you still there?"

"Aye, just thinking."

"Do you think I'm in trouble?"

"No, it sounds like they were just making routine enquiries, as they said. They've probably questioned everyone who was ever seen with him."

Charlie felt relieved. If Rory didn't think it was anything to worry about, then it probably wasn't. "What do I do if they come back?"

"Tell them the truth. He held you, you got away. You didn't do anything to him, so there isn't anything to hide."

"You're right." And if Rory was right, why did he still feel so nervous?

"Don't worry so much. You're just feeling guilty because of everything else that happened last year. You had nothing to do with this, so don't worry about it."

"All right, I won't." But he would certainly bring it up at his next therapy appointment. He had to learn to control his reaction to hearing Tuomi's name, or people really would start being suspicious.

"So, what are you cooking for tea tonight?"

The sudden change in topic confused him for a moment. "Oh, I hadn't even thought about it."

"Well think about it and surprise me."

Charlie smiled. "I will." There was a new casserole recipe he'd seen in the Sunday paper, and he thought he had all the ingredients ... the local shops weren't too far away if he needed something, anyway. And maybe he could make a sponge pudding while the oven was on ...

"I'll talk to you later," Rory's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Sure. And thanks."

"For what?"

"For being so calm about it."

Rory snorted. "They can't pin anything on you, so don't worry."

"I won't. Bye love."

"Goodbye. See you tonight."

Charlie put the phone down and smiled into the distance. Rory always made him feel better. And he was right, it had only been routine—there was nothing to worry about.

  
**6.2 — Carpe Diem**

_Wednesday 8th April 2004, 10 am_

Charlie was just settling down to a cup of coffee and a novel when the phone rang. He stifled a curse and leaned over to grab the handset.

"Hello, Charlie speaking."

"Hey, Charlie, it's Pat, how are you?"

"Oh, hi Pat. I'm not bad. Yourself? And how's Melissa?"

"We're fine. She's getting enormous though, I think we'll be glad when it's all over."

"Er ... I hate to tell you this, but there'll be another eighteen or more years before it's 'all over'."

Pat chuckled. "Yeah, I guess. But at least she'll be able to sit comfortably again."

"That would be good. So what's new? Are you coming up any time soon?"

"Yes, this weekend—we're spending Easter with my parents. It's probably the last time we'll be able to travel without a mountain of baby stuff, and Mum is really keen to see Melissa again."

"Will you have time for a beer?"

"Of course, can't go all that way and not have a drink with my oldest friend."

"That's great." Charlie felt very happy—it was ages since he'd seen Pat, and although he had apologised for his behaviour the previous year, he still wanted to see him in person, to make sure that he was truly forgiven.

"Actually, the reason I'm ringing is that I was talking to Ben Jackson this morning."

"I don't know him."

"You do, you met him at a few of the gigs. Tall guy, red hair, freckles, glasses ..."

Charlie thought hard and came up with a vague picture of someone who might fit the description. "Yeah, maybe. So what's up?"

"Well, he works at Blueprint Studios—it's a new place in Salford, opened last year. He told me that one of their bookings just fell through and they're looking for someone who wants a couple of days of studio time."

"And?"

"And I thought of you."

"What? Why?"

"You said you wanted to record something later this year—I just thought it would be a good opportunity for you."

"But I don't have enough material."

"You told me you had four songs. Add one more and you have enough for a decent EP."

"They aren't ready to record."

"Bullshit. You said you were starting to look at gigs—if they're ready to perform, they're ready to record."

He thought about that. It was true he was starting to think about performing again, but at some indeterminate date in the future, not right now. "I don't know."

"Look, mate, think it over, give me a ring back this afternoon."

"When is the opening?"

"Next week—Tuesday and Wednesday."

"Shit!"

"Gives you a few days to work on everything."

"There's no way I can be ready in time. And even if I could, I can't afford to pay for it."

"So ask that boyfriend of yours. Tell him it's an investment."

"Yeah, right." Charlie could just imagine how that would go down with Rory.

"He'll do it for you."

Charlie thought about it some more. Rory might agree to pay for it ... but then again, Rory rather liked having him at home. He might not be keen on Charlie taking up music as a career in earnest, and he'd probably view two days in a recording studio as an expensive indulgence.

Pat broke into the silence. "Look, it's a good opportunity, mate. If you don't use it, you might not get into a studio before the end of the year, and it'll be a hell of a lot more expensive then."

"I know, and I'm grateful for you telling me ... it's just a bit sudden."

"Well, that's how we got our break to start with, remember—you just have to seize the moment when it arrives."

Seize the moment. _Carpe diem_ , as his schoolmasters would have put it.

"I'll think about it."

"Well think about it quickly. I can't promise you it'll still be available tomorrow, they might find another taker."

"OK, OK, I'll talk to Rory and ring you back."

"Great. Good luck."

"Thanks."

Pat rang off and Charlie sat for a while, just looking at the phone in his hand, thinking about the prospect of recording.

He'd started writing again more as therapy than anything else: letting his emotions spill out in words and music; purging the pain and the tears and the heartache from his soul. He'd thought about performing of course, but it had always been in some nebulous, ill-defined future, when he was further along with his therapy. Now that he was faced with a real opportunity, did he want to take it? Did he really want to take the plunge back into the music industry, knowing all the risks that went with it? Playing songs for Rory was one thing, but playing songs for the public to hear—and buy—was very different.

He set the phone back in its cradle, still thinking. Eventually, he decided to give Rory a ring at lunchtime and talk it over with him. He wasn't sure how much it would cost, but two days couldn't be that much, and it wasn't as if they were hiring Abbey Road or Air Studios. Charlie gave a wry smile at the thought that he might one day record in the same studios used by the Beatles. It would be something to aim for, when he was a bit more successful ... if he was successful. If he ever got started.

Well, one way to deal with it was to get back to work on that tune that had been bugging him for a couple of days. He picked up the guitar from the chair where he'd left it the day before, and very shortly was surrounded by music paper and scribbled notes. If he could talk Pat into bringing up his keyboard, he thought, he might be able to add some more complex harmonies to two of the songs—and that would be much better than solo guitar all the way through. He wouldn't have much time to practise, but even simple chords would add a depth that the guitar couldn't match.

With a sigh he looked up and realised that it was nearly one o'clock. It was time to ring Rory, and see how he reacted to the news.

Rory sounded quite cheerful as he answered the phone, and Charlie felt encouraged as he started to pour out his tale.

"... but Pat says I have to give them an answer by this afternoon, since they're looking elsewhere as well."

"Do you want to do this?" asked Rory.

"I ... I don't know."

"If you don't know, why are you ringing me?"

"Because ... because I wanted to talk it over with you."

"So we're talking. But I can't make the decision for you. I'm not the musician."

"Maybe I should talk to Mum."

"She can't make the decision either."

"But what do I do then?"

Rory sighed heavily. "The therapist said you have to start making decisions. This is a decision."

"But what if I decide wrong?"

"Charlie, think about it. Is it really such a big deal? It's two days in a studio. It's not a public performance in front of millions of people. You go in there, you record, you listen to what you've done, and then you can decide what to do with the recordings. Is that so frightening?"

When Rory put it that way, no it wasn't, and Charlie felt a huge sense of relief. "No, it's not frightening."

"So all you have to decide, really, is if you want to hear what you sound like. No one else has to listen to it, just you. Do you?"

"Yes," Charlie answered, more confident in that answer than he had been for a long time. "Yes, I do."

"Right. Ring Pat back then and tell him you'll take it."

"I don't know how much it's going to cost."

"How much do you think it will be?"

Charlie considered that. "Two days, one engineer, self-producing ... six hundred pounds? Maybe less. Shouldn't be more."

"I can afford that."

Charlie heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I do love you, you know."

"Eejit."

Charlie could hear the fondness in Rory's voice and smiled to himself. "Yeah, I'm an idiot. But I love you anyway."

"So make sure you cook me something nice for tea then."

"I'll do that."

Rory rang off and Charlie sat and smiled at the phone for a while, just remembering the tone in Rory's voice. He might not say the words out loud very often, but Charlie knew that Rory loved him and would look after him.

Pat picked up on the second ring, and Charlie told him the good news.

Pat was delighted. "Excellent, man, I was hoping you would say yes."

"Don't be too happy—I need your keyboard. You still have it, don't you?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I want to do a couple of songs with keyboard accompaniment. Solo guitar is boring for a whole CD."

"OK, sounds fair. I have two, actually, a Roland and a Yamaha, which one do you want?"

"The Roland's the better piano sound, isn't it?"

"Yeah, the other one has some good effects though. And it's a fair bit lighter."

"I don't suppose you could bring them both?"

"You don't ask much, do you?"

"You're the one who wants me to record."

Pat gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yeah, all right, but you owe me a crate of beer. And if Melissa arcs up about it, you take the heat, all right?"

"Yeah, well, I have a feeling I'm going to be taking heat from her anyway."

"She'll be fine, just let her get it off her chest and grovel a bit and then she'll forgive you."

"I hope you're right."

"Trust me, I'm married to her."

  
 _Friday 10th April (Good Friday)_

In spite of the fact that Rory had considerately turned off the alarm, Charlie woke early and couldn't get back to sleep. Pat had said they would call in around eleven on their way to Blackburn, to drop off the keyboards, and Charlie was getting more and more anxious about it all. What if Pat thought the songs were shit? What if he decided not to lend him the keyboards after all? What if he got to the studio and they laughed at his piss-poor efforts to write?

At half-past six he decided that sleep was no longer an option and went downstairs to make coffee. While the kettle was boiling, he took the methadone dose that they had brought home yesterday and rinsed the container. He was going to be so very glad when he was finally over all this, but his doctor had cautioned him that he would need at least a year on methadone, maybe two, before she would contemplate the weaning process. That suited Charlie anyway: the thought of weaning off scared him witless. At least she was still happy to adjust the dose for him when he needed it—he didn't have to be afraid of breakthrough withdrawal this year. Although, to be truthful, there hadn't been much change in the last month. Maybe he was stabilising at last.

The kettle came to the boil and he made himself a mug of coffee, adding milk and a single spoon of sugar. He went into the living room and tidied up the papers and books that were lying around, running the sleeve of his dressing gown over the thin layer of dust on the shelves. His music was already stacked in a neat pile on the coffee table, and the guitar was in its customary place on one of the armchairs. Everything was ready for Pat's arrival.

He sat on the edge of one of the chairs, his left knee jiggling up and down as it always did when he was nervous. Neither the coffee nor the methadone could help him with his anxiety, and he wished that he had had the strength to turn down Pat's offer. It didn't really matter if he put off recording until later in the year, or even the following year. He was stupid and greedy and it was all going to end badly.

Rory roused him from his dismal thoughts by shuffling down the stairs, yawning and stretching.

"Morning, love," Charlie greeted him with a smile. "The kettle's hot, I'll make you a coffee."

Rory nodded, and followed him into the kitchen. "How did you sleep?" he asked.

Charlie shrugged. "Not bad. Woke early—I'm a bit anxious."

Rory put his arms around him. "You'll be fine."

"Pat's going to think the songs are rubbish."

"No he won't. And you said yourself he was good at arranging songs, so he'll probably give you a hand."

"I hope so. I'm getting so fucking nervous about this."

Rory nuzzled at his neck. "I have just the cure for that."

"What's that?"

"A good hard shag."

Charlie grinned. "You might be right."

"I'm always right."

"Nearly always."

Rory grinned and took a firm hold of Charlie's backside. "Are you going to argue with me this morning?"

"Would it do me any good?"

"None whatsoever."

"Hmm, might have to settle for agreeing with you then."

"Good idea."

The kettle came to the boil and Charlie eased himself out of Rory's arms just long enough to make two fresh mugs.

They made their way back upstairs, exchanging coffee-flavoured kisses every few steps. Once back in the bedroom, mugs were set down and dressing gowns removed, and they settled onto the bed, kissing and fondling each other.

"How do you want it?" asked Rory.

"Don't mind, what do you want?"

"I want you to tell me what you want."

"I don't care."

Rory rolled him over and pinned him to the mattress. "Charlie, I know you're nervous, but this is an easy one. There's no wrong decision here, you just have to pick whatever position you'd like us to use. Top or bottom, I don't care."

"I want it like this."

"Like this?"

"You on top of me, holding me. It feels ... safe."

"Safe."

Charlie blushed. "Yeah, I know it sounds cracked, but I like it when your arms are around me. Maximum skin contact."

Rory ran a hand over Charlie's side. "Like this?"

"Mmm."

"Sounds like you enjoy that."

"I do."

Rory reached for Charlie's cock and gave it a long, slow stroke. "You like this too?"

Charlie arched his hip up. "Yeah, you know I do."

Rory moved down his body, kissing him and stroking him, making him shiver and sigh. He parted his legs at Rory's command and allowed his lover to lick and suck on his balls and cock. Rory's mouth was on his most intimate parts, his cheeks scraping against the tender skin of Charlie's thighs and buttocks.

"I'm going to have stubble rash if you keep doing that," he murmured.

"Maybe I should keep on doing this for a bit longer then, so your bum is all red and tingly, and then I'll make you wear your tightest jeans, so you'll feel me all day."

"Fuck, yeah," breathed Charlie. Frankly that sounded great, and his cock agreed with him.

"You're a tart, Charlie Pace," said Rory, sitting up.

"Only for you."

"Only for me, eh?"

"Only you. No one else, not ever. Not any more."

Rory eyes shone, and Charlie felt happy that he'd said the right thing. It wasn't even a lie—he'd slept around with enough men (and a few women) during the previous year that he had come to appreciate the value of having one lover who cared for him, who wanted to give as well as take, and who would look after him even better than he could look after himself. And if that lover just happened to come in the form of an incredibly good-looking, forceful, sexy Scotsman with a voice that could melt stone, well, he wasn't going to complain.

Rory resumed his actions, giving long slow licks to Charlie's balls and perineum, making sure that his cheeks were rubbing up against the skin. Charlie spread his legs as wide as he could, wanting to feel Rory's mouth everywhere. He could never get enough of this, he would happily spend the next few years right here in this bed with Rory's mouth on his cock, sucking and licking and making him moan with pleasure. Even the sound of it was making him hotter.

He looked down his body, at the sight of Rory with his lips stretched taut over Charlie's cock, taking him in as deeply as he could and sucking so hard it was almost painful. One hand was around the shaft, pumping in time with the movements of his mouth, bringing Charlie closer and closer to his climax. It rushed through him so suddenly that it took him by surprise—he arched up and cried out as he came into Rory's mouth.

"Want you inside me," he murmured as soon as he was able.

"I know you do," Rory smiled at him and reached for the lubricant. He spent the next few minutes stretching Charlie, spreading the lube liberally, before coating his cock and lining himself up.

Charlie sighed as Rory eased himself slowly into his body. It really did feel different, doing it bareback, and he promised himself that he was never going to do anything that might force them back into using condoms. He wanted to be able to feel every tiny movement, every vein and wrinkle, and above all he wanted to be able to feel Rory coming inside him.

Rory wasn't in any hurry this morning. He moved slowly, allowing Charlie to savour every moment, giving his cock a few leisurely strokes as he hardened once more, bending him up so that his cock was brushing over Charlie's prostate.

"Feels good," whispered Charlie.

"Aye," Rory smiled at him. "You always feel good to me."

It was a long, slow, sensuous shag, and Charlie was drifting in a haze of pleasure and lust for what seemed like an age before Rory finally speeded up his thrusts. He looked at Rory's face, contorted with effort and red with exertion, and thought that he had never seen anything lovelier in his life. Then he felt his second orgasm starting, and pumped his cock vigorously until he spurted over his belly. Rory followed a few seconds later, and then they collapsed into a heap on the bedclothes.

It was at least a minute before Charlie had breath enough to whisper, "You were right, you know."

"Hmm?" Rory sounded like he was barely awake. Well, after all that effort, Charlie couldn't blame him for wanting a nap, he was exhausted himself.

"I'm too shagged to feel nervous now."

"Good."

Charlie smiled, and nuzzled his head into Rory's shoulder as he drifted off to sleep.

  
**6.3 — Making It Work**

_Friday 10th April (Good Friday)_

Charlie woke at ten, when Rory shook him, and he had time for a shower and some breakfast before Pat and Melissa arrived, around half past eleven.

Melissa was, as he had expected, a bit cool towards him. Well, he had nearly ruined her wedding day by not turning up to be Best Man, so he could hardly blame her. He took Pat's advice and apologised to her, not giving any lame excuses, just saying that he was sorry that he had let her and Pat down.

"I was so angry with you," she said. "Pat kept on saying that you'd turn up, even when you hadn't made it to the rehearsal, but I knew you wouldn't."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Where were you?"

Charlie shrugged. "London. Stoned out of my mind." He really couldn't narrow it down any further: so much of the previous year had been spent in a blur of drink and drugs and sex that the days and weeks had merged into each other.

Melissa sniffed, but let it go for the moment. "Well, he's forgiven you, so I suppose I'll have to as well."

"Thanks," he said quietly, and meant it. Pat was his oldest friend, and he really couldn't face the prospect of being estranged from him because his wife bore a grudge.

She nodded. "Right then, where's your loo?"

"What? Oh, upstairs."

"Thanks. I can't wait to get some bladder capacity back," she added with a sigh.

"I'll show her," said Rory. "You and Pat can unload the car."

"Right."

"Good idea," Pat agreed.

They went down to the car, which Pat had parked as close to the entrance as possible. The two keyboards were in the back seat and were awkward to manoeuvre out.

"I think I'm going to have to do more weight training," said Charlie as he rested the Roland against the wall and fumbled for the keys. "This thing weighs a ton."

"Yeah, it's not a good one for gigs," Pat agreed. "But it's useful. Just don't drop it, it's not insured."

"I'll be careful," Charlie promised him.

Rory and Melissa were in the kitchen when they got back, chatting while Rory got tea and coffee ready. Charlie and Pat lugged the keyboards up to the spare bedroom, which was normally fitted out as a small gym, and started connecting cables and power cords.

"So, how's it going, now that you're back here?" asked Pat.

Charlie shrugged. "OK."

"Just OK? I thought you said that things were good with Rory now."

"They are," Charlie agreed. "But I feel so fucking useless, you know. No job, no licence, no money. Rory has to do everything for me."

"That won't be for too much longer though. When do you get your licence back?"

"July."

"That's not so bad, it's only three months away."

"I suppose." He sighed. "But that's only one part of it. There's the methadone, and the counselling, and the doctor's visits, and it all costs money, which I don't have, so Rory's paying for everything. And the food, and my clothes, and ... just everything. And now I have this chance and I'm so fucking scared I'll stuff it up." He felt, suddenly, as if the whole world was pressing down on him, and he wanted to run away from it all.

"You think you're the only one with problems?"

Pat's voice was colder and harder than usual and Charlie looked up, concerned for his friend. "What's wrong?"

"You have to fucking ask? Mel's going to have a baby in a few weeks."

"I thought you were happy about that."

"I am, but it means she won't be able to work for a while, which means we are completely dependent on what I can bring in, and I don't have a steady job."

"You said you had an ad agency job."

"Yeah, but it's not like a regular pay check. Mel's going to have to go back to work as soon as she can, at least part-time, and I hate that. I should be able to support my wife and family."

"You will. You're a good musician, mate, you'll get steady work."

"There are hundreds of good musicians in London. Most of them are lucky to get work once a month."

Charlie could hardly deny the truth of that. He realised, with a sense of shame, that his own problems seemed trivial in comparison with Pat's. "I'm sorry, Pat."

"It's OK. At least the house is paid for, thank God. I'll manage somehow."

"I know you will. You've got talent, man."

"No, you were always the one with the talent. You'll make it solo, I know you will."

"If I do, you're coming with me—I'll need a drummer, after all. And I'll need a friend to keep my feet on the ground, stop me getting bigheaded and obnoxious."

"Nah, that was Sinjin."

"Yeah, the prick."

They laughed, and everything was right between them again.

~~~~~~

As soon as Pat and Mel had gone on their way up to Blackburn, Charlie went up to the spare room and started work. He had dragged a chair in from the bedroom and now sat with his chin in his hands, thinking.

Arrangements had always been relatively easy for him. He didn't just hear the tunes in his head, he heard the chords too, and sometimes a counterpoint. Getting them down on paper, though, was a very different matter. He knew that some people didn't even bother, keeping it all in their heads, but Charlie had never worked that way. For some obscure reason, he needed the medium of manuscript paper to clarify the jumble of sounds in his head; to sort out which notes belonged with which instrument; to refine the ebb and flow of the music.

He tinkered with the keyboards, switching from the Roland to the Yamaha and back, fiddling with the effects, making up weird combinations just for the hell of it. He was playing as much as working, he knew that, but it all helped. In the background, his mind was going over all the sounds and sorting them into useful and useless, so that when he came to the serious work he had a palette to choose from.

It seemed like no time at all until Rory came in at half past six and told him he had to take a break.

Charlie stretched and yawned. His back was a little stiff after so long hunched over the keyboard, but he felt that he had achieved quite a lot, and that made him happy. He'd got most of the accompaniment done for two of the songs and was working on a third. That was enough for one afternoon.

"I'm not all that hungry, actually," he said as he followed Rory down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"You need to keep your strength up."

"I'm not ill any more, you know."

"You will be if you don't eat."

"And pizza is going to keep me healthy?" he asked, seeing the boxes on the table.

"It's either that or my cooking. The Thai place was closed, and you know I only do bacon and eggs or tinned soup."

Charlie grinned. "Point taken."

They sat down and started eating pizza.

"How is it going?" Rory asked, between bites.

"Good." Charlie mumbled, his mouth full of food. "At least, I think so." He took another bite. "I want to ask Pat if he'll spend another day with me before he goes back to London."

"Ring him and ask him then."

"But he's up here to see his family."

"By Sunday he'll probably be gagging to get away."

"They aren't so bad. At least his parents aren't, I don't know about Mel's."

"So ring him and give him the opportunity to escape if he needs it. He can always say no to you."

"I guess."

Rory put his food down and looked at him. "This is a decision point, Charlie. If you want Pat's help this weekend you have to ring him and ask him."

"What if he says no?"

"Then you're no worse off than today."

Charlie considered that for a second. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right. So as soon as you've finished eating, pick up the phone and call him."

Charlie nodded.

It wasn't until half an hour later, with the leftovers consigned to the fridge and his hands washed clean of grease that he picked up the handset. A thought struck him and he turned to Rory. "I don't know which house he's staying at."

Rory, carrying two mugs to the table, said, "So call his mobile."

"Oh, right."

Rory shook his head sadly. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he leaned down and whispered in Charlie's ear: "If you call him right now I'll let you fuck me tonight."

Charlie shivered and punched the numbers in so fast he had to cancel and do it again.

~~~~~~

Pat, of course, was happy to spend Easter Monday with Charlie. He arrived at 9:30, alone.

"No Melissa?" asked Charlie.

"No, she and her mum and my mum are having a girls' day—I think they're going to strip a few baby shops bare."

Charlie grinned. "So you won't mind me keeping the Yamaha for a week then?"

"Mate, at the rate they're going I'm not sure I'd have room for it anyway. In fact I'll have to pack the Roland tonight just to make sure it gets car space first. I don't trust them one inch."

"Not when it comes to shopping. Women are weird that way."

"At least you don't have to worry about that. I bet when you two go shopping it's all over in five minutes."

"Well ... " Charlie started, but he was interrupted by Rory, entering the room with three mugs.

"Don't let him kid you, Pat. Princess here can spend an hour choosing a pair of jeans."

Charlie flushed, but he was more embarrassed than annoyed. "It was forty minutes at the most. And jeans are important. They get looked at when you're on stage."

"Sure," said Rory, giving his lover a wry smile.

Pat laughed. "Well he needs something to draw attention away from the ears."

"True."

Charlie threw a cushion at Pat, but it missed, and they all laughed.

They chatted for a few more minutes, and then Pat said that they had better get started. "I have to be back by seven, and the traffic's going to be murder."

"Sure." Charlie set down his mug and stood up. "Are you going to be all right down here?" he asked Rory.

"I'll be fine. Don't worry, I'll just catch up on a bit of work, or read or something."

Although Rory looked perfectly content, Charlie felt a moment's sadness that he was shutting Rory out of his life for a few hours. "I love you," he whispered as he gave Rory a hug. "I'll try and get finished as soon as I can."

"Don't rush it," Rory said. "Do as much as you can while Pat's here. I'll bring some coffee up in an hour or so."

"That would be great." Charlie flashed him a warm smile, one that he hoped told Rory just how much he loved him, and followed Pat up the stairs.

True to his word, Rory kept them well-supplied with coffee and food, and made them take half an hour's break for lunch. It was only toasted sandwiches, but they were delicious and plentiful, and Charlie ate enough of them to make his jeans uncomfortably tight around the middle.

They called it a day around five o'clock. Charlie felt exhausted from the concentrated effort, and no matter how he stretched, he couldn't get rid of the knot of tension in his shoulder. Still, he and Pat between them had arranged three of the songs, one of them a complex three-part harmony that was going to be a real chore to lay down—and since they could only play two at the one time, he wasn't sure how all three parts would integrate. Still, that was the whole purpose of having studio time, so that he could lay down tracks and build them up into a complex and coherent whole. Part of him was still dreading the coming week, while the other part was itching and eager to get in there so he could hear everything as he heard it in his head.

"Thanks for all your help, Pat," he said, as they started to pack up the Roland.

"You're welcome."

"I don't suppose you could stay on for a couple of days and help me record?"

"Sorry, mate, I wish I could, but I have to get Mel back down to London—she's got an appointment with the obstetrician on Wednesday morning."

"Oh. Oh well, never mind, it was just an idea."

"You'll be fine, you know. Honestly, you've got it all ready, you just have to play it."

"I know, it's just ... " He could feel the tendrils of doubts creeping around him again.

"You've just got cold feet."

"Yeah."

"It's no big deal, you know. If it doesn't turn out well, you can go back later."

"I know, but I don't want to waste Rory's money."

"You won't. Think of it as a demo tape. That's all it is, really, you're not putting any bells and whistles on it. If you ever get a contract they'll want to re-record everything."

"You're right, I know you're right. But it's a lot of money to spend on a demo tape. I don't even know if it's going to be worth listening to."

"Mate, do you trust me? Do you trust me to be honest with you?"

Charlie thought about that. Pat was, after all, the one who had been least affected by the hype that had surrounded them all. Furthermore, Pat was the one who had consistently identified the good songs that they had written, and he'd never been hesitant in pointing out weak areas of anyone's composition or lyrics—much to their annoyance at times. Yes, he could trust Pat.

He nodded. "I trust you."

"Then believe me when I say that these songs are all right. I don't think they're Grammy winners, but they're good. And 'Deus ex Machina' is possibly the best you've written in three years."

Charlie gave a wry smile. "I was inspired for that one."

"Yeah, I guessed that. But it doesn't matter. Inspired or not, you wrote it and it's good, and you should record it."

"I will."

Charlie sighed as they continued to pack up the Roland. He wished that he had even a fraction of the confidence in himself that everyone else had.

  
**6.4 — Opening Doors**

_Tuesday 14th April 2004, 9:30 am_

Charlie stood on the front steps of the apartments and looked out at the meagre garden. The wind had finally lost its bitter edge, and the sun was recovering from its winter pallor. There were even patches of blue in the sky, and when he took a deep breath he could smell the faint trace of blossom from the trees in the nearby park. It felt good to be alive on a day like this. It felt good to be alive, full stop. Today was an important day for him, and he was grateful that the weather was encouraging—he needed every bit of help that he could get.

The car—a new BMW sedan that Rory had leased for the business—pulled up in front of him and Rory gave him a hand to load the keyboard and the guitar into the boot. Charlie's pile of papers and notes, hastily shoved into a folder, went on top. Then they were on their way.

The journey to the studio in Salford only took half an hour, even with the morning traffic still winding down from peak. The building wasn't all that impressive from the outside: it had been a warehouse originally, and the high brick façade looked grim and slightly forbidding. But Pat had assured him the staff were professional and the studios, though not all completely kitted out yet, were good. Well, it wasn't as if he needed much, anyway: a microphone and a basic mixing desk would be ample for him. He allowed himself a moment to dream of the day when he could afford to hire a full band to back him before pulling himself back to reality. He was lucky to have Liam's old guitar and Pat's Yamaha keyboard, and his success would depend not so much on what he had, but what he did with it.

They turned into the parking lot and Rory stopped the car in front of the door—well, it was more of a loading dock than a door, but it was open and there was a man standing there with a cigarette in his hand. Charlie got out of the car and walked over to him.

"Hello, do you need a hand?" asked the man.

"Probably—I'm Charlie Pace, I have a two-day booking."

"Dan." They shook hands. "Right, the small studio. Do you have much gear?"

"Only a keyboard and guitar."

"Okay, I'll help you in with it." He disposed of the stub and helped Charlie and Rory to lift out the guitar, keyboard and the associated cords.

"Follow me," he said, leading the way into the building and into a small recording suite. "Studio two is the one you have—Johnny's your engineer, I'll hunt him up once we've dropped this stuff."

He ushered them through a large soundproof door into mixing room and then through to the studio. "Here you are," he said with a smile, setting the guitar down in the middle of the studio. "I'll just get Johnny," he added, and headed back out, leaving Charlie and Rory to look around.

The room was fairly basic. The only window was the one that gave onto the mixing room. Two small slabs of plasterboard divided the back wall into three partitions, each with bank of power sockets, and the ceiling was scattered with baffles to absorb sound and control the echo. There were microphones and headphones scattered around the walls and a couple of music stands in the corner. The room smelled faintly of new paint and carpet adhesive.

Charlie nodded to himself. It would do.

Rory looked around in astonishment. "Is this all there is?"

"What were you expecting?"

"I'm not sure ... somewhere to sit down, at least."

"That'll be in the mixing room." Charlie led him back through and showed him the mixing desk, which faced the window, and the couch and armchairs arranged around the walls. "See—once we've recorded, we come back here and listen with the engineer and the producer to see how it sounds. We can adjust the mix, or go back and record something again if it's not working out the way we want."

Rory frowned. "Is two days going to be enough?"

Charlie shrugged. "I don't know. But there's only me, it's not like we have to lay down a ton of separate tracks." The realisation that it was indeed, only him, seemed to hit him like a blow.

"Are you all right?" asked Rory.

He swallowed, and wiped his suddenly-sweaty palms on his jeans. "Yeah, just a bit nervous. There's only me, you see—it's never been only me before. When DriveShaft recorded, I was just the bass, my track went down straight after Pat's, always, and then we relaxed and until Liam and Sinjin had finished arsing about and arguing. Now ... it's just me, and I have to do everything."

"Do you want me to stay here with you?"

Charlie shook his head. It was generous of Rory to offer, but he knew he'd never concentrate with his lover watching him. "No, I'll be OK." He smiled. "As long as the engineer's not deaf I'll be OK."

"Not yet, but I'm working on it," came a voice from the door.

They turned to see a short, stocky man with wavy brown hair smiling at them. He stuck out his hand. "Johnny," he said. "I'm the sound engineer for this session." His accent was broad Glasgow—even broader than Rory's, Charlie realised, but then Rory had been living in Manchester for so long it wasn't surprising if his accent had softened.

Charlie shook hands with him. "Charlie Pace," he said, and received a warm smile in return.

"Good to meet you. You were with DriveShaft, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was."

"You had some decent songs. Shame about the glitter."

He said it with such a straight face that Charlie couldn't help laughing. "Yeah, it kind of took over."

"And this is ... ?" Johnny asked, looking at Rory.

"Rory McManus," said Rory, in a cautious tone, shaking Johnny's hand.

"Oh, a fellow countryman, I see."

"Aye."

"Are you his manager? Or the producer?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, just a -"

"I'm his partner," stated Rory firmly.

Charlie stared. Rory never—but _never_ —admitted to being anything other than Charlie's friend in front of strangers. What had got into him?

Johnny stared back impassively for a moment, then nodded. "Are you staying?"

Rory paused a moment, then shook his head. "No, just helping him unload the gear. I work in the city."

"Right. Well, don't worry, you can leave Charlie in my capable hands." He winked and turned to Charlie. "Do you have your notes?"

"Sure." Charlie pointed to the folder sticking out of his bag.

"Well, then, let's get a coffee and look over them, you can give me a short run-through of what you want to do in the next two days and then we'll set up the kit."

"Sounds good." He looked at Rory. "Do you want me to call you when we're through for the day?"

"What time?"

"Six-ish?" He looked enquiringly at Johnny, who nodded.

"Sounds about right. We can go later if we need to, but your voice might give out."

"Yeah, I'm not used to singing for long stretches any more."

Rory nodded. "I'll be here at six then." He hesitated, and Charlie wondered what he was thinking.

"I'll walk you back to the car," he said, and pushed Rory out of the room. Once they were outside the building, he asked, "What was all that about?"

"What?"

"You told him you were my partner.'

"I am."

"I know that, but you never say it, not to strangers."

Rory took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe I should then." He scuffed the ground with a toe.

Charlie could tell that he wanted to say something but was having trouble finding the words—or the courage—to say it. Under normal circumstances Charlie would have pushed him to speak, but he had to get back to the studio: two days wasn't all that much time and he had an awful lot to do. He decided that since Rory had just announced their status as a couple he could legitimately claim a kiss on the cheek, at least, and did so.

Rory coloured a little but didn't pull away, so Charlie kissed him again. Rory smiled a little, but pushed him away when Charlie tried for a third time. "Enough, I'm only going to work."

"I'll see you tonight then."

"Aye." Rory fished out his car keys and then said, in a low tone, "Watch yourself. He's interested in you."

"What?"

"That Johnny. He's interested in you."

Charlie stared at him. "He was just being friendly."

"Well don't let him get too friendly."

"I'm not interested in him."

Rory looked at him intently, as if trying to judge whether Charlie was telling the truth.

"Seriously. You're my lover and I don't want anyone else."

Rory nodded and opened the car door. Charlie shook his head, but couldn't help smiling a little. He really wasn't interested in Johnny, but it felt comforting to know that someone besides Rory could find him attractive—and even more comforting that Rory felt protective.

He watched until Rory had driven off and then went back inside. Johnny was in the studio, unpacking Pat's keyboard. Charlie gave him a hand, and it didn't take very long for the two of them to connect all the cables. Johnny found a couple of chairs Charlie could use while he played, and set up the various microphones.

They spent an hour looking at the six songs Charlie wanted to record. Charlie played each of them through once, so that Johnny could get an idea of tone and tempo, and then they discussed the various options for recording and mixing each one. It wasn't until nearly midday that Charlie found himself alone in the studio with the guitar on his knee, waiting for Johnny's signal.

The room seemed large and intimidating. He knew it wasn't in reality; it was just an average studio, and if DriveShaft had been recording it would have been crowded with all their gear; but it seemed as large as a cathedral to him sitting alone with a guitar and a single keyboard waiting to one side.

Johnny's voice came through the intercom, startling him. Everything was ready; he could hear the click track starting over the headphones, and a nod from Johnny to tell him that he was recording.

He wiped his hands on his jeans, then settled the guitar on his knee and closed his eyes for a moment. This was probably his last chance to do anything in the music industry, and he knew it. He had to make it count. He couldn't afford to blow this chance.

He took a deep breath and started to play.

~~~~~~

By late Wednesday afternoon, they had six songs recorded and mixed, which Charlie thought was some kind of miracle. To be sure, a couple of them were only two tracks—guitar and a single voice—but three of them had keyboard parts and four had vocal overdubs. The sound engineer's advice had been invaluable and Charlie knew that he had definitely got all that he'd paid for and more. Johnny had even given him the name of a couple of guys who could print up his CD liners if he decided he wanted to get some discs made up.

"I like that one," Johnny said, as they listened to 'Deus ex Machina' one more time.

"Yeah, that one's special." Charlie couldn't help smiling as he thought back to that Valentine's Day when he'd sung it for Rory. It would always be special to him, and even now he wondered if he was doing the right thing in recording it—one part of him wanted to keep it secret, known only to themselves, while another part insisted that it was the best song he'd ever written and he couldn't afford not to use it.

Johnny stretched as the song came to an end. "I'll run a CD of this lot off for you now, you can take it home and see how it sounds on different systems. Let me know if anything needs tweaking."

"Sure. How long will you keep the master files?"

"As long as we have room for them, mate. And since we've only just opened I reckon you're safe for a while."

"Thanks. It might take me a few weeks to see exactly what I want to do with it."

"Are you interested in performing live?"

"Sure." He shrugged. "Not easy to break into the scene though."

"There's an open mike night at Selena's next Monday. Why don't you come along? It'll be good practice if nothing else."

Charlie thought about that for a second, then nodded. "Thanks, I will. What sort of music does the club usually get?"

"Pretty much what you've done today—a few ballads, maybe something a bit faster occasionally, but it's mostly solo performers so you'll fit right in."

Charlie smiled. "Sounds ideal."

It did, actually. He'd take Rory along with him for moral support, but if Johnny were going to be there too, then he could be assured of two friendly faces in the audience.

He picked up the disc that Johnny handed him and put it in his bag. As they were packing up his gear he thought about the way things had changed in the last week. First recording and now performing ... things were moving almost too fast for comfort. For a moment he thought about backing out of the open mike night, but it would just be cowardice. He had to take the opportunities as they arose; he couldn't ignore them or expect them to wait on his convenience. And after all, he had just proven that he had half a dozen songs that he could perform, and that was enough for a short set. An open mike night wouldn't require more than two, unless the place was dead, and he doubted that Johnny would have invited him if it was going to be boring.

The only real drawback would be that performing would eat into the time he spent with Rory. Rory's work was mostly during office hours, while performing would be exclusively in the evenings and at weekends. He didn't want to lose any of his precious together-time ... but on the other hand, he had to admit that they had got into a little bit of a rut, watching TV or DVDs most evenings rather than talking with each other.

He'd talk to Rory about it, but he knew what he wanted to do. For the first time in nearly two years, he felt that he was moving forward, and that felt very, very good.

  
**6.5 — Stepping Out**

_Wednesday 12th May, 10 pm_

Charlie took a deep breath and tried to ignore the sick fluttering feeling in his stomach. He couldn't ever remember being this nervous before, not even when the band was new. At DriveShaft's first gig the four of them had all been nervous, sure, but they had supported each other too, and they'd had friends in the audience. Even the open mike night a few weeks ago hadn't been as nerve-wracking as this, it had been more like karaoke, just a bit of fun, no real pressure.

Tonight was different. He was on his own, with no support other than Rory standing at the side of the room; the microphone the only barrier between him and a potentially hostile audience. Some of them might recognise his name, but it was two years since the band had broken up and memories were short in clubland. He was, essentially, an unknown, and he had to convince a room full of strangers that he was worth listening to; that he had talent; that he could entertain them and amuse them and keep their minds off their own troubles for one short hour.

He picked up his guitar, adjusted the position of the microphone, and began the first song. He was too quiet; too hesitant—he knew that immediately. He panicked for a moment, but continued, making the second line louder, and then the third, and then he was flying through it, caught up in the joy of making music.

Song followed song, and it was with a sigh of mixed relief and disappointment that he listened to the polite scattering of applause that greeted his final offering. It certainly wasn't the enthusiastic response he'd been hoping for, but at least the ordeal was over, and he could make his escape.

Rory was at his side a few moments later. "That went well."

"I was shite."

"No you weren't. You can do better though, and you will, next time."

"If there is a next time."

"There will be. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and start packing up. Do you want a drink?"

"A beer, please."

Rory nodded and headed to the bar.

There wasn't much gear to pack up—the club supplied a small amp and speakers, and Charlie hadn't considered it worth the expense to get anything more powerful for such a small venue. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn't sure it was ever going to be worth investing in better equipment ... and no doubt Rory would heap scorn on him for being negative again, but he still had doubts that he had the talent to make a solo career for himself.

Still, every journey begins with one step, as the saying went, and he had taken that first step and hadn't fallen flat on his face. That was definitely more than he had expected.

The next performer began to set up, and Charlie moved all his gear out of the way. There were a couple of young women hovering by the amp, and he gave them a tentative look as he reached for his guitar.

'Umm, excuse me," began one of them.

"Yes?"

"You're the Charlie Pace who used to be in DriveShaft, aren't you?"

"Yeah, that's right."

There was a slightly awkward pause. Charlie couldn't think of anything to say except to ask them if they had liked his songs, and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. The girls were obviously too nervous to talk coherently, and looked horribly embarrassed.

"Umm, we liked the songs," the other one said, eventually.

"Thanks." He wasn't sure if they meant it or if they were just being polite, but since that was the only feedback he'd got so far he wasn't going to knock it back.

"You didn't sing any DriveShaft songs."

"No, well I'm not in DriveShaft anymore."

That stopped the conversation again, and Charlie continued packing up, making sure his guitar was secure in its case, coiling the cables and collecting his notes.

Rory arrived carrying two glasses of lager, and held one out to him. Charlie couldn't help but smile warmly at his lover, though Rory's slightly guarded look reminded him that they were under observation.

Suddenly, he made a decision: he wasn't going to hide his sexuality any more. He wasn't going to pretend to be something he wasn't. Fuck the industry conventions: he was Charlie Pace and he was gay, and if the world couldn't cope with that then the world could take a flying leap off Beachy Head.

"Thanks, love," he said, and took the glass, making sure that his fingers brushed over Rory's. A glance over at the two girls—now wide-eyed—confirmed that the message had been received and understood. He felt a weight shift from his shoulders and his smile broadened. Rory seemed to understand what he was doing, because he didn't turn away or frown, he simply lifted his drink a fraction in salute and took a long swallow.

"Do you want to stay for the next lot?" asked Rory.

Charlie shook his head. In the old days with the band he'd been exhilarated after performing—high on the atmosphere if not from the drugs—but tonight he was suddenly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to be taken home and cosseted. He drained his glass and picked up the guitar case. "Ready when you are."

Rory nodded and led the way out to the car. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Charlie nodded. "Just tired."

"Not surprising ... you hardly slept at all last night."

"I think I'll sleep until midday."

"Methadone, remember?"

"Fuck."

"You can go back to bed afterwards."

"Yeah, I guess." Charlie sighed. He'd been looking forward to a long lie-in, forgetting that it was only possible on Sundays or public holidays. "Unless I get it later in the day."

"You'll be twitchy by ten o'clock," Rory reminded him.

Well, that was true too. Fuck it all, he just wanted to sleep in for once. Was that too much to ask? He gritted his teeth and decided to talk to Dr McKenzie at the next appointment, to see if he could switch the methadone dose to later in the day. After all, if his career took off he would be performing in the evenings and it would be much more convenient if his dose was at midday than eight or nine in the morning.

Ah well, he couldn't really do anything until he got his licence back anyway, and that was going to be a few weeks yet. And then it would depend on Rory getting a second car (which they could scarcely justify until he got regular gigs), or running Rory to work and picking him up everyday (which would effectively prevent him sleeping in anyway).

He sighed. He would have to accept that there was no alternative to early mornings for the time being. It didn't mean he had to like it.

"Besides, you have the discs to pick up tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah." Charlie smiled. Five hundred shiny compact discs, in plastic jewel cases, with a glossy liner. His first solo album—well, EP, since it only contained five songs. He was very lucky indeed that Rory had agreed to pay for them in addition to the recording costs, and he was keeping his fingers well and truly crossed that he would manage to sell a good proportion of them over the summer. Failing that, everyone he knew was going to be getting one for Christmas, right down to the lollipop ladies at the nearby school, who always said hello when he ran past.

~~~~~~

Two weeks later he was in a pub in Bolton, doing a mid-week gig for a friend of Johnny's. The audience was a bit flat, more intent on their own conversations than his music, and he didn't think he'd made a good impression. Still, he was getting cash for it instead of booze, and that was always good.

He looked apprehensively at the small pile of CDs on the table. Rory had insisted that he bring along a dozen or so, just in case someone wanted to buy them. They looked quite professional, but he knew he was kidding himself. It was a vanity project, and he was going to have to work long and hard before he got any real professional standing. He had also printed up some business cards with his contact details on them, just on the off-chance that someone might want to book him.

After he'd finished the set and was starting to pack up, he noticed a young couple hovering nearby and smiled at them.

"Hi," the woman said, smiling back. "We enjoyed your songs."

"I think you must have been the only ones listening."

"Yeah, it was a bit noisy."

"There's a CD here, if you're interested—only five pounds."

She looked at the cover and then grinned. "Yeah, why not." She handed over the fiver and took the CD. "Would you sign it for me?"

"Of course," he replied. "Umm ... do you have a pen?"

"I'm not sure." She scrabbled in her bag and came up with a biro. "This do?"

Charlie looked at it. "I think so. I'll give it a go, anyway."

He pulled the insert out of the cover and scrawled his name across it, adding three crosses underneath. "Just give it a couple of minutes before you put it back in the case."

"Thanks," she smiled at him, taking the CD and the pen. "I hope we get to see you again."

He shrugged. "I hope to get some regular gigs soon."

"So do I. Do you have a web page or anything that people can go to?"

"Sorry, I haven't even thought of anything like that, but you're right, I'll look into it."

"Smashing." She turned to her boyfriend and they moved off.

Charlie watched them go with a smile. His first sale ... so simple, and so easy. He hoped there would be a lot more. And he would have to throw a couple of pens in with the CDs—he couldn't rely on people having their own, and a lot of the DriveShaft fans would want an autograph. A felt-tip, not a biro; something that would dry quickly and not smear.

As for a website—he would think about it. He knew it was possible to get a free website but he didn't really have much idea about building one. He could cope with browsing, all right, but writing HTML was a little beyond him, and he wasn't going to ask Rory for yet more money. Time enough to do that when he had regular appearances.

~~~~~~

Other gigs followed—not every week, but often enough that he could refine his set and work out which songs had the best chance of engaging the crowd. As he had half-expected, there were a couple of his own favourites that didn't seem to please them, and there were always demands for some of the DriveShaft singles. He generally smiled and pointed out that he wasn't a four-piece rock band, and most of the time people accepted that. He'd adapted two of his own compositions from the second album, just to fill out the hour, but he was determined to make this his own set, not just recycling the band's songs.

In June, after yet another enquiry from a fan, he asked Kevin if he could help him get some sort of basic web page together.

"Well, I could code it for you," Kevin said, "but why don't you use MySpace?"

"What's that?"

"It's like a blog, only you can upload pictures and stuff. They just opened a music section for bands—you can upload songs and videos as well. You should get one, you can host your songs there, you'll get heaps of exposure. And people can friend you and comment and stuff."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's great for keeping in contact."

"How much does it cost?"

"Nothing. It's free. They have advertising, I guess that's where they make their money."

"Thanks, I'll look into it."

He looked the site up the next day, when Rory was at work, and eventually came to the conclusion it was be a good idea for him to set up a page. All he had to do was agree to the Terms of Service and declare that he owned the copyright on the songs he was posting—well, that was easy—and he could have what was effectively a multimedia website for free. Songs, photos, videos, upcoming gigs and a blog ... and no coding. It really seemed too good to be true.

He signed up then and there, and then started to think about what he could upload. Gigs were easy—he had two in the next few weeks, and the possibility of a third. Songs now, that was a bit harder. He hunted around until he found a programme that could convert his CD tracks into mp3 files, and then had to choose which two to upload.

He'd need a photo for his profile page, too. Not a DriveShaft photo—he was going to make it very clear that he wasn't going to trade on his previous life. Charlie Pace was not DriveShaft, he had a different style of music and a totally different attitude.

He hadn't had any photos taken for a couple of years ... well, not counting mugshots, anyway. He would have to ask Rory about that—they had a digital camera, they could take a few that evening.

He shook his head and smiled wryly. He remembered how it had been with the band when they had first started—phoning people to get gigs; explaining over and over what their music was like; handing over cassette tapes—and they'd thought themselves so professional because they'd had the labels typed, not written out by hand. He remembered the endless photo sessions after they'd been signed; the interviews they'd had to endure for publicity's sake; the TV spots that marketing had begged for so desperately. Publicity had been a chore and he'd hated it.

Now ... well, it was almost freaky how much had changed in just five years. All he had to do was upload a couple of files, add the URL to his business cards, and wait for people to come to him. It all seemed so simple, it couldn't possibly work.

He'd make it work.

  
**6.6 — Unwelcome Advances**

_Tuesday 27th July 2004_

Charlie made a perfunctory bow at the applause, smiling from ear to ear, and started to pack up his kit. He checked his watch—twenty past eleven. Not bad. He had been the last on the list for the night and he'd had a feeling that the schedule would slip, so he'd asked Rory to come and get him at eleven thirty, after Rory had finished his karate class and had a drink with them.

There were a couple of people who came up and chatted to him as he worked. Two of them even bought the CD, which pleased him, and a couple more took the flyers he'd printed up, giving details of his next two gigs and the all-important MySpace page. It was early days yet, but it looked like he was starting to get a toehold in the Manchester music scene, and it made him feel both relieved and proud. He certainly wasn't making any money out of it yet—it would be ages until he recouped the cost of getting the CDs made—but he had noticed a couple of familiar faces in the crowd, and it gave him a warm feeling to think that people liked his songs enough to come and listen to them a second or third time.

He looked up at the last man waiting, a sleek blond in a suit, which was unusual for the venue.

"You used to be the bass player for DriveShaft, didn't you?" the man asked.

"Yes, I was."

"Man, I loved your music. I even saw a couple of your gigs. You were awesome live."

"Thanks. Yeah, we had some good times." Charlie smiled—he couldn't help it in the face of such praise.

"It's a shame you broke up."

Charlie shrugged. "These things happen."

"How are you guys all doing now?"

There was a tone in the question that Charlie didn't quite like. He looked at the man more closely, trying to work out if he was a journalist trying to get a free interview, or some sort of weirdo trying to scrape up an acquaintance he could later trade on.

He made his answer as non-committal as possible. "We have our own projects now, and Liam's in Australia," he said. That much was public knowledge, so he wasn't giving anything away.

"Have you ever thought about getting back together?"

"No."

"That sounds very definite."

"Yeah, it is."

"OK then, no problem."

"You want to buy a CD? Only five pounds, free autograph included."

"Sure, why not. Make it out to Jason."

Jason picked up a flyer and a card while Charlie was signing the CD, looking at them for a second. Then he got out his wallet and handed Charlie a fiver and a business card in return.

"Thanks," he said. "I look forward to talking with you again soon."

Charlie looked down at the card, which read:  
Jason Sanderson  
Regional Sales  
Northern Lights Entertainment

He looked up, but the man was already on his way out of the club.

Charlie shrugged and got back to his packing. The pile of CDs went back into the duffle bag. The total number of discs sold so far was only nineteen, including the one Jason had just bought, and he was starting to think that he'd still have a stash of them in his cupboard when he was old and grey.

He sensed someone hovering around behind him, and looked up. There was a tallish man there, well-built—looked like he worked out a lot. He was pleasantly handsome, but not really Charlie's type. _Not that I'm looking, anyway_ , he told himself, with a whisper of warmth as he thought about Rory.

"Hi," he said, and gave the man a slight smile before turning back to the cables and starting to coil them up.

"Hi." The man stood there without speaking—looming, Rory would call it—and Charlie started to feel uncomfortable.

"Did you want something?" he asked, letting a little irritation into his voice.

"Erm ..." the man started, the cleared his throat. "I liked the show."

"Thanks. I'm glad you enjoyed it." Well, maybe he was just nervous. "There's a CD, if you want it. Five pounds for five songs—a real bargain. I'll even autograph it for you."

The man shook his head. "Sorry. Didn't like the songs that much."

 _Well, thanks for nothing, mate_ , Charlie thought, but he forced a smile and said, "No problem." It wouldn't do to antagonise the customers, even the obnoxious ones.

"You're gay, aren't you?"

Charlie stared at him. It was a rather odd question to be asked out of the blue. He wondered what the man really wanted. "Yeah. So?"

"Well, I was wondering, like, if I could get you a drink. Chat about things we might have in common."

"Thanks for the offer," he said, keeping his voice neutral, "but my boyfriend's picking me up in a few minutes."

"Oh. OK." He hesitated some more. "Maybe I should hang around then."

 _What_? "Suit yourself, mate."

He put his guitar back into its case—he'd bought a hard case for it now that he was carrying it around everywhere—and clipped it shut.

The large man was still looming. "What's your boyfriend like?"

Fighting the urge to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business, Charlie forced himself to remain civil. "I like him."

"Is he tall?"

"What's it to you?"

"It's just that I've always fancied a threesome."

Charlie stared at him. What the fuck was this guy on? "Have you? Well, maybe you should head down to Canal Street. I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for there."

"I meant with -"

"I don't care what you meant. I'm not interested. OK? Can't get plainer than that. Now excuse me, I have to finish packing up."

"There's no need to get unpleasant about it. I'm a good shag, you know. You'll enjoy it."

 _Fucking hell!_ This was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Charlie looked around the room but no one else seemed to be in earshot. He really wanted to get away from this bloke, who was sounding more weird every time he spoke, but he didn't want to start a fight—his suspended sentence still had a year to run and he couldn't afford to get into any sort of trouble with the police. "Look, I don't want to offend you, but, as I said, I'm not interested. Now, I suggest you take yourself off before my boyfriend gets here because he's a wee bit possessive and he doesn't like other men trying it on. OK?"

"You think you so high and fucking mighty, just because you were in a band once. I really fancied you, you know. Bought all of DriveShaft's records. They were total crap, too."

"That's hardly my fault."

Charlie heard a voice from behind. "Is everything all right here?"

Charlie turned immediately and saw Rory strolling up, looking amazingly casual and totally hot in a black shirt and trousers, his simple gold chain gleaming in the pub's lights. Charlie felt the worry fall away from him and nodded. "Yeah, everything's fine."

"Are ye nearly ready?"

"Just a couple of minutes."

"Is this your boyfriend, then?" The man was looking at Rory as if he couldn't believe it. "You turned me down for this?"

 _Oh fucking bloody hell_ , thought Charlie, _I really don't need this_. Rory might have mellowed a bit, but that didn't mean he was going to take any crap from loudmouthed cretins. He opened his mouth but was forestalled by Rory, saying, "And who are you?"

"My name's Tony."

"Well, Tony, I suggest that you turn around and take yourself off to whatever hole you crawled out of this morning."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. And do it now, before I get angry. You do not want to see me angry, believe me." Rory's expression hardened and he shifted his weight slightly. Charlie recognised his fighting stance and his heart plummeted—this was going to get nasty. He looked around, trying to spot the pub's bouncer, but he was nowhere in sight. He did, however, catch the eye of the barman, who nodded and hurried off to find help.

"You? I could take on five of you and not even raise a sweat."

"I doubt it. Now go. You're annoying me."

Tony—inevitably, Charlie thought—swung a fist at Rory, who reached forward and threw the man to the ground with negligible effort. Tony stared up, as if he couldn't believe what had happened. "You fucking cunt!" he shouted, as he scrambled to his feet, but he was prevented from throwing another punch by the prompt arrival of the bouncer, who caught his arm in a meaty fist and twisted it behind his back.

"Not a good idea, sunshine," the bouncer growled. "Time for you to leave."

"He fucking attacked me!"

"Not the way I saw it. Out. Now."

Surprisingly, the man allowed himself to be escorted from the premises, though he shouted a couple of insults in their general direction as he went.

Rory shook his head. "What was all that about?" he asked.

Charlie shook his head. He was a bit upset by all that had happened—angry and resentful and helpless and hungry and jittery. "Can we get back?" he asked. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"Sure." Rory let the subject drop for the moment and helped Charlie to pick up his guitar and the duffle bag of gear.

"Where's the car?"

"In the alley. Figured it would be easier."

"Great."

They loaded the car with no further incidents, though Charlie kept a keen eye out for Tony, and set off back to Whitefield.

"So," said Rory, "do you want to tell me what was going on back there?"

"Not really," said Charlie, but he knew that he had to talk about it. "He came up and asked me out. I said no, I had a boyfriend and then he said he wanted a threesome. I told him to go away and he started to get nasty." He shrugged. "Still don't understand why."

"He wanted a threesome? With you and me?" The car swerved to one side briefly as Rory reacted to what Charlie had just said. Luckily there was little traffic tonight and no police in view.

Charlie nodded. "But I'd already said no."

"I should have broken his fucking jaw!"

"Rory! No. You did the right thing. You let the bouncer deal with it. I'm still on a suspended sentence, remember? We can't afford to get into fights."

Rory looked mutinous, but finally nodded. "I'd better not see him again, though. I'll fucking maim him."

Charlie fervently hoped that Tony would take himself out of the Greater Manchester area immediately.

  
 _Monday 2nd August_

The phone rang on the following Monday, while Charlie was putting washing in the dryer. He muttered a curse and stalked into the living room to pick up his mobile. "Charlie speaking."

"Mr Pace?"

The voice was unfamiliar to him. "Yes, that's me."

"My name's Jason Sanderson, from Northern Lights. I introduced myself after your gig the other night.'

"Oh yeah." Now Charlie remembered—pale guy, sharp suit. "You bought a CD."

"Yes, that's right. And it was good, too, nice to see that your songwriting skills haven't disappeared."

"Thanks." He could barely conceal the sudden excitement and nervousness he felt. He'd tried not to think about the business card Jason had left him, but he'd looked up the company on the web and found that they did promotions and management—and they had a recording division.

Were they going to offer him some gigs? Or perhaps even a contract? It would be astonishing, this early in his career, but why else would a recording company want to talk with him? He bit his lip, glad that Jason couldn't see him, and wiped his suddenly-sweaty palms on his jeans.

"You could have done with more backing though—some of the songs were a bit spartan."

"Well there was only me, I did what I could with the overdubs and stuff."

"Oh, absolutely, I'm not saying you did a bad job, just that your songs deserve a richer, more developed accompaniment. And that brings me to the point of this call—I have something very exciting to discuss with you."

"Oh?" Suddenly Charlie was very interested indeed. It had to be a contract, it had to be.

He hadn't really thought much about the next stage of his career yet. He'd expected a couple of years of slow, steady progress through the clubs, gaining a following, pushing his CD through MySpace and the performances. That hadn't worried him, to be truthful—he knew he had to be able to perform well live if he wanted a sustainable career in music. He'd had a vague idea of getting a second EP cut over the winter, and then perhaps approaching some recording companies the next year, making his club appearances into auditions. Slow and steady, that's how he'd planned it.

And now ... well, maybe now he had the chance of making a leap up to the next level. He couldn't deny that it would mean a lot to him to get proper management again; to have interviews and photo shoots and appearances on Top of the Pops. All of that publicity would help his sales, but to get publicity he really needed the backing of a major record label. If Northern Lights were interested in signing him, he would get that.

He smiled and for a moment he let himself indulge in his favourite daydream, where he made a name for himself and sold millions of discs; where he appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone and NME; where journalists clamoured to interview him and Liam's name wasn't mentioned once.

Jason's voice brought him back to the present. "... and now Northern Lights is expanding and we need new product. I've been talking with my bosses, and we feel that the time may be right."

There was a pause.

"Yes? Right for what?" asked Charlie.

"For a DriveShaft reunion, of course."

"What?" Charlie shook his head, as if to clear his ears. Had he heard right? "I'm sorry, could you say that again? I'm not sure I understand."

"We want DriveShaft to re-unite and we want to sign you."

"DriveShaft?"

"Yes, that's right. I was a big fan of yours, back in the day—one of the reasons I opted for entertainment management, in fact. Well, you and Oasis."

Charlie was stunned. DriveShaft? They wanted DriveShaft, and not him?

Jason went on. "Any road, we've been analysing the sales and tour statistics from Rhythm Records, and we think that FYT made a big mistake in letting your contract lapse back in 2002. In a way, you were ahead of your time. We think that there is definitely a market for your brand of grunge rock, and we're interested in signing you. Obviously we'll have to negotiate terms, but I think you'll find we have a good appreciation of the current trends and we're very supportive of our artists. What do you say to that?"

Charlie barely heard Jason's question. He felt crushed; overwhelmed; bruised, punctured and lacerated. They didn't want him at all. The enthusiasm and encouragement—it hadn't been for him, it had been for the band. They wanted Liam and Sinjin; the glitter and the gossip; the sex symbols and the PR circus. Not him. Not Charlie Pace.

"I'm sorry," he said. "The band is dead. We broke up two years ago."

"Bands can be reformed."

"DriveShaft can't. Liam lives in Australia now, he's not going to want to come back."

"I think we'll be able to come to some sort of arrangement with him—and let's face it, Australia is only a day away. And I'm sure he'll be interested in our proposal. Why don't I email you a draft contract? You can talk it over with him and the others, see what they think."

"No. Thanks, but no."

"Look, maybe I was a bit sudden. After all, it's come out of the blue. I'll give you a couple of days to think about it. Talk to your friends, anyway, see what they think about the idea."

"I really don't think this is going to work."

"You should have a bit more faith in yourself. DriveShaft was a good outfit, I think you guys deserve the chance to capture some of that magic back."

"I appreciate that you're a fan, but honestly, no."

"Don't be too hasty, man. Think it over. I'll talk to you in a few days."

He rang off, leaving Charlie holding the phone, his thoughts a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. In the last few months he had day-dreamed about a lot of possible futures, but the one scenario he had never envisaged was the band re-forming.

The disappointment—the sheer, bloody _sickening_ disappointment—was overwhelming. He had been hoping for a solo deal—recognition of his own talents; a chance to make it on his own merits. He'd worked hard over the last few months, pimping his talents to clubs and pubs, flogging his CD, spending hours grooming his friends and acquaintances on MySpace ... he really thought he had a chance of making it as a solo performer. And now it was like a slap in the face to be told that his only value was as a conduit to the band.

He threw the phone down onto the table, poured himself a large glass of Rory's precious 21-year-old Glenfiddich and collapsed onto the settee.

He was still sitting there when Rory came home.

"What's up? Are you not feeling well? Should I call the doctor?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, I'm fine." That wasn't quite true—he was still muzzy from the whisky he'd drunk. His head span as he sat up.

Rory looked at him closely. "So what's wrong? And why are you drinking in the middle of the day?"

Charlie made a face. He really didn't want to have to explain to Rory what had happened; it meant going over his crushing disappointment all over again.

"Charlie? Come on, tell me."

"There was a guy at the gig the other night."

"Aye, I remember him," Rory growled. "Has he been pestering you again?"

"No, no, this is a different guy. Record company, Northern Lights."

"And?"

"He called me today."

"What did he want?"

"He wanted to talk about a contract."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Not really." He was almost shaking with the effort it needed to stay more-or-less in control, when all he wanted to do was breakdown and cry like a child.

"What do you mean, not really?"

"He wants to sign DriveShaft. Not me, the band."

"What?" Rory looked shocked.

Charlie almost threw the glass at the wall in his frustration, but—remembering what had happened the last time he did that—he settled for putting it down on the table and rubbing his hands over his knees.

"He said ... he said he wanted the band. Not me." And to his horror he found tears spilling down over his cheeks. He scrubbed them away angrily but more followed.

Rory hurried over to him and pulled him into a hug. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Charlie let himself drawn against Rory's chest. Now that his lover was here he could give into the emotions that had been barely held in check over the last couple of hours. He felt Rory's arms around him and cried for a couple of minutes until the first wave of despair had receded.

"I knew I wasn't going to be good enough," he mumbled.

"Don't be daft, you are good enough."

"If I were good enough they'd want me."

"They do want you."

"No, they want Liam. They want Sinjin. I'm just the only one they could get hold of."

"Are you sure about this? Could you have misunderstood what he said?"

Charlie shook his head. "He said that they were looking for new product, that he'd been a DriveShaft fan since day one, and had we ever considered re-forming? He said that people might like our ... our 'grunge rock'. And it was never grunge rock," he added, suddenly angry. "We were hard rock. With ballads."

"It doesn't matter what you were." Rory tried soothing him, but it only served to make him more angry.

"It does! If he can't get it right at the start then he's not going to get it right later."

"There's not going to be a later."

"Yeah, I know, I know." Charlie rested his head on Rory's shoulder. "I just thought, for a moment ..."

"That it was going to be you."

"Yeah."

"It will be you. Just not this week."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

"I'm not good enough to make it on my own."

"Don't be so negative. Your MySpace page is getting a few hits every day. Your song plays are well into three figures. The audiences are getting better."

He knew Rory was trying to make him feel better, but honestly, everything he said just brought home to Charlie how pathetic he was. "Half those plays are just me. And the rest of them are from DriveShaft fans. They'd be thrilled if we re-formed."

"I wouldn't be."

"I know but ... it's just that I was prepared for it to take a long time, you know. I knew it was going to take a couple of years just to get recognition. I didn't mind that. But then, for one fantastic moment, I thought I was going to get it all handed to me, I was going to get the fast-track back to the top, and I really, really wanted it."

"And then it was snatched away again."

"Yes." He sighed. "It's just not fair." He picked at a loose thread on his shirt. He was being childish and he knew it, but the disappointment had been overwhelming, and he felt cheated and useless and miserable.

Rory tilted his chin so that their gazes met. "Charlie, look at it another way. Do you have enough material for a two-hour concert right now?"

"Fuck, no."

"How long will it take you to write that much?"

"A year at least. Maybe two."

"So what would happen if you were promoted and you didn't have the material to back it up? Do you want to be another one-hit wonder like the band was?"

"We weren't -"

"You were, to most of the people around the world. How many people could name one of your songs besides 'You All Everybody'?"

"The fans could."

"So you need fans. But you aren't going to get fans—long-term fans—if you don't have good music."

Charlie had to admit the truth of that. He had to admit that he wasn't ready yet. He needed time to write; time to refine his songs in performance; time to get some arrangements done for when he could afford to hire a backing band.

It didn't make it any less disappointing.

"I know," he said at last. "I know you're right, but ..."

Rory put his arms around him and nuzzled at his ear. "Would a good shag help to cheer you up?" he asked, his breath tickling the sensitive skin.

Charlie laughed; he couldn't help it. "Quite possibly."

"Good, because I've been thinking about you all day and I want to fuck you till you scream."

Charlie's cock twitched. Rory's voice was growly, making him sound even toppier than usual, and that generally meant a good hard fuck that would have him feeling it for the next two days.

"I'd better go and wash my face."

"It's fine." Rory kissed his cheeks and his eyelids, and it felt as if he was kissing away all the doubt and self-loathing and anger. Charlie relaxed and leaned back on the settee, tilting his head back as Rory's kisses moved down to his neck and chest. He fumbled with the buttons of Rory's shirt, pushing the fabric back and watching how his lover shivered slightly as cool cotton was brushed over his nipples.

More languorous kisses followed, accompanied by caresses to his head, and neck and shoulders. He felt Rory's hand over his skin, teasing and soothing in one. The late afternoon sun caught Rory's hair, making it a fiery aureole around his head, and Charlie was reminded of the angels in the pictures at his old church. Did angels have sex? And would they be as good at it as Rory was? A flash of guilt at the possible blasphemy crossed his mind, but he banished it—after all, if he could think of Rory as a god, why not an angel?

At that moment the angel placed his hand squarely on Charlie's cock, eliciting a groan and an involuntary movement of his hips.

"You like that?" breathed Rory

"You know I do."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to fuck me."

"I will, have patience."

"I never have patience when it comes to you."

By this time Charlie had undone Rory's belt and zip, and was reaching inside his trousers. He got a good grip of Rory's cock and felt him swell further in his hand.

"Maybe I need to give you lessons."

With an iron will Rory took Charlie's hand off his cock and stood up. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers and boxers. His shirt followed next, and his vest, leaving him naked and hungry and looking very, very predatory.

Charlie gave a tiny shiver in response, and Rory smiled down at him, letting just a little bit of the Shark show through. Bastard, thought Charlie, Rory damned well knew it got him hot and hard in no time flat. He started to get up, wanting to fall to his knees in front of Rory and worship that big, beautiful cock, to taste it, to feel it filling his mouth, to see Rory's eyes glaze over with lust and pleasure, but he was checked by a gesture.

"Where's the lube?" asked Rory softly, his voice barely more than a whisper but redolent with power.  
Charlie reached behind him, under the cushion, and pulled out a tube that he held up.

"Prepare yourself for me."

Charlie swallowed and his cock twitched again. He pulled his jeans down and kicked them off, then shrugged out of his shirt. He fumbled at the cap before managing to open it and squeeze out a large dollop of gel onto his fingers. He spread his legs wide open and reached down to rub the lubricant over his entrance before inserting two fingers, plunging in as deeply as he could and twisting them round to spread the lube inside.

A bead of fluid appeared at the tip of his cock. It grew and grew, and finally ran down the shaft, leaving a trail that caught the light. Rory's eyes were fixed on it, and Charlie felt exhilarated that the sight of him could enthrall his lover. With one finger he caught the drop and drew it back up the shaft, hissing as he rubbed the fluid over the crown.

"I'm ready," said Charlie.

"More."

Rory watched intently as Charlie added a third finger, and then a fourth. Lube had smeared itself over his thighs and buttocks, making them glisten in the light.

"Fuck me now," begged Charlie.

He could see that Rory wanted to—he must be exerting every bit of self-control he had in order to stand there, so far away.

"Fuck yourself. On your fingers."

Charlie moaned as he plunged his hand in, rubbing his fingers over his prostate, feeling himself get harder and hotter and he wasn't sure how much longer he could last. He was so close now, his cock was aching, and he just wanted Rory deep inside him.

"Please," he whispered.

"Use both hands," ordered Rory.

Charlie groaned and his erect cock swayed. "I can take you now."

"I know you can, but I want to see you use both hands. You know how hot it gets me."

"Any hotter and you'd burst into flames," panted Charlie, but he reached for the lubricant again. Then he inserted two fingers from each hand, pulling himself open, tilting his hips up so that Rory could see inside him.

Rory growled and stroked his own cock, beads of fluid spilling over the crown, and Charlie almost came then and there.

"Please," he begged again. "I can't last much longer. Please."

Rory moved. Pulling Charlie's arms out of the way, he positioned himself and pushed inside in one long, smooth thrust.

"Oh," Charlie groaned with pleasure, feeling Rory's cock fill him, thick and hard and hot and so very, very good. Even with all the lubricant he had used, there was still a slight burn as the base of Rory's shaft broached him, and he welcomed it.

"You feel so fucking good," breathed Rory.

"So fuck me."

"I will."

With that Rory started to move—slowly at first, then speeding up. He adjusted Charlie's hips and rammed home, causing Charlie to grunt, "More."

"You'll get it."

Rory's thrust became stronger, a rhythmic pounding on his prostate. He tried hard to keep his eyes open so that he could see his lover, who was concentrating hard on his task, almost frowning with the effort. He wished he could reach Rory's buttocks but the angle was wrong, so he contented himself with running his fingers over Rory's arms. He was rewarded by a glimpse of brilliant jade eyes and the hint of a smile as Rory kept on moving. He could feel his orgasm building up with every thrust, and all too soon he was grabbing his cock and almost shrieking as he came, the hot fluid splashing over his chest and spilling over his fingers. He felt Rory's orgasm a minute later, and was ready to support him as he relaxed.

"Mmm," Charlie gave a contented sigh as they shifted positions until they were comfortable.

"How do you feel now?"

"Exhausted. But good," he added. "And yes, you were right, a good shag made me feel lots better."

"I'm always right."

  



	7. Redirection

**7.1 -- Portents and Protests**

_Tuesday 3rd August 2004, 4 am_

Rory woke up suddenly, his heart racing and his chest heaving. The images were fading, but he still felt the residue of the terror he had felt while caught up in the nightmare. He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, which was damp with sweat.

Beside him, Charlie stirred. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

Charlie sat up and turned to look at him. "You don't get nightmares. What was it about?"

Rory tried to make sense of the vague images that skittered around the fringes of his consciousness. "Not sure. It was all very strange." He leaned into Charlie and let himself be eased back down onto the bed, welcoming the feel of Charlie's arms around him, strong and secure, and never mind that it was August and too warm for snuggling.

"You were in a plane, and there was an explosion, and smoke, and a lot of screaming," he murmured.

"Did the plane crash?"

"I don't know, I couldn't tell. And then it went really weird."

"Dreams are always weird."

"Yeah, but this one ... I don't know, there was just something about it that spooked me."

"Must have taken a lot to spook you, love," Charlie tried to soothe him, stroking his back and nuzzling into his cheek.

Privately, Rory thought that it didn't take much to spook him at all. The merest suggestion that Charlie might leave—or be taken away from him—was enough to scare him witless. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to recall what he'd seen in his mind. "There was some sort of black smoke, chasing people around. Everyone was terrified." He shook his head. Whatever else there might have been it was all gone now. "I can't remember any more."

"Evil smoke monsters, eh? Maybe I shouldn't let you read so much science fiction before you go to sleep."

"I don't think I've ever read a book that was as strange as that dream." He frowned. "It all seemed so real, though."

"It always does. I had a nightmare once where I was seduced by Britney Spears. Frightening. I woke up all sweaty and anxious."

Rory laughed—trust Charlie to find a way to make him feel better. He raised an eyebrow and looked knowingly at him. "Most guys wouldn't class that as a nightmare, you know."

"I know." He sounded very smug. "But they don't have you."

"You'd take me over Britney Spears?"

Charlie giggled. "She'd get squashed if I did that. Not to mention jealous. But yes."

"That's good. I'm glad to know that I don't have to fight her for your affections."

Rory settled his head on Charlie's shoulder and wriggled around until the rest of him was comfortable. He could feel Charlie's hand rubbing small circles over his shoulders, very soothing, and he started to relax. "I hate nightmares," he muttered under his breath.

"No more nightmares," Charlie whispered confidently. "Not tonight. I won't allow it." He kissed Rory's forehead.

Rory smiled. It was absurd to think that Charlie could control his dreams, but he felt a little safer, nonetheless. He drifted off to sleep again, safe and secure in his lover's embrace.

~~~~~

He woke at seven, when the alarm went off, feeling better but not completely rested. There was a faint sense of pressure in his chest and he wondered if he had indigestion—the pork pie they'd had for dinner the previous night had been pretty heavy. It had probably caused the nightmare, too, now that he thought about it. Well, they wouldn't get that brand again.

He drank the coffee that Charlie made him, grateful for the caffeine boost, then showered and dressed. He hoped he felt better soon: he had karate that evening and didn't want to miss it.

The feeling in his chest faded after a couple of hours, but a vague sense of unease hung over him for the rest of the day. Had he missed something important at work? He questioned Chris and Ken and went through the work accounts carefully, but found nothing untoward. Business was good, on both sides—he hadn't fired anyone recently, and nor had he had to lean on any of his loans clients. There had been no follow-up from the London police about Tuomi, either, so why on earth did he have this feeling that the world was about to collapse?

He found out why when he got home.

"Hi love," Charlie greeted him with a hug and a kiss. "Good day?"

"So-so." He took a can of beer out of the fridge and popped the top. "How was yours?"

"I talked to Pat earlier, and told him about the phone call yesterday."

Rory froze for a second. "Why? I thought you said you didn't want the band to re-form."

"I know, I know ... but Pat's my oldest friend. He deserved to be told about the offer. I want to be sure I made the right decision."

"You did."

"Yeah, well ..." Charlie's voice trailed off.

"What?" asked Rory, suspicion rising in his mind.

"Well, Pat said he thought Sinjin might be interested—his solo albums have been a bit slow to sell, and his film work hasn't caught on as much as he hoped. He's going to ring him and see what he says."

"What?"

"Look, he's just going to talk to him."

"Sinjin won't want to do it."

"Well, maybe, maybe not. But Pat's right, you know, I don't have the right to make the decision for the band. We should all be involved."

With a sinking feeling, Rory knew what was coming next. The fact that Charlie knew he was on dicey ground was evident from his tone of voice. He waited for it.

"And Pat thinks I should ring Liam."

There.

The very thought of seeing Liam again was enough to raise his blood pressure. That niggling feeling in his chest was back, too. He said nothing for the moment but went over to the drinks tray and poured himself a glass of whisky. It burned his throat going down, but seemed to ease the discomfort, and he poured himself another.

"Rory?"

"What?"

"Why don't you say something?"

"What do you want me to say?"

That stumped Charlie for a second. "I don't know, really."

They looked at each other for a few seconds. Rory could see that Charlie was unhappy, but this wasn't something that Rory could fix. He felt as if they were teetering on the edge of a precipice, and one wrong move by either of them would send them both tumbling to their deaths. He desperately wanted to give Charlie an ultimatum: to force him to choose between him and the band; but one of the things that the therapist had hammered into his head was that an ultimatum only made things worse, not better, and he had the sense to see that forcing Charlie to choose right now wasn't wise. Charlie was confused, muddled and distressed. He didn't know the right thing to do, and Rory's task was not to confuse him further but to help him to make a decision—and then accept that decision.

Well, that was the theory anyway. Rory still had doubts that he would be able to accept any decision that took Charlie back into Liam's orbit.

He drained his glass, and with a sigh, put it down on the table. He could feel the effects of the whisky now, but while the tension in his chest had eased he didn't want to be drunk. Not this evening, not when he had to come up with logical and reasonable arguments why Charlie should not phone Liam. He had to keep a clear head so that he could keep Charlie safe.

"What are we having for tea?"

"Cold meat and salad. I found some new potatoes too, they won't take long."

Well, it wasn't one of Rory's favourite meals, but it was too hot for Thai or Indian, and he had karate that evening anyway, so he nodded and let it pass. Charlie went into the kitchen and started preparing the meal, while Rory went upstairs and changed out of his suit.

They said little during the meal, and the silence wasn't exactly comfortable, but Rory still had the feeling that anything he said would be wrong, and he was too tired to argue. He just wanted things to go back to what they had been, with Charlie home and safe, and nowhere near Liam or Sinjin. He had never trusted either of them much anyway, and especially not after he'd found out how Sinjin had dragged Liam and Charlie into heroin addiction after him. Alcohol was bad enough—and he was perfectly aware of the irony in that statement, thank you—but he could cope with Charlie drunk. He couldn't cope with Charlie addicted again, not after all they'd been through, and he had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that if Charlie went on tour with the band again he would be an addict within the month. Rory wouldn't allow that. He _couldn't_ allow that.

He got up from the table and went upstairs to get his karate gear. Charlie was standing by the front door as he came down, bag in hand.

"Can we talk about this later?" Charlie asked.

"What's the point?" Charlie looked hurt, and Rory elaborated. "Charlie, you know what I feel about this. I don't know how you feel. I don't even think you know yourself what you feel."

Charlie shrugged, but said nothing more. Rory opened the door and stepped out, shutting it behind him with a click.

~~~~~

When he got back from karate, Charlie was in bed, ostensibly asleep. Rory suspected he was awake, but didn't press the point. He undressed, cleaned his teeth, and got into bed. Sleep eluded him, though, and he tortured himself with visions of Charlie drunk; Charlie addicted; Charlie seduced by fans; Charlie bullied by Liam; Charlie falling apart in some foreign country with no Rory there to help him.

How the hell was he going to stop Charlie from going back to the band?

  
 _Wednesday 4th August_

The next day seemed to pass a little more quickly, though he was still uneasy. The indigestion had not returned, which was a relief—perhaps he ought to eat a bit less in the evenings, at least while the hot weather lasted.

This time when he arrived home, Charlie was in the kitchen washing strawberries. Somehow that seemed to reassure him.

"Hello, love," Charlie greeted him with a smile. "I saw these at the supermarket, I thought you might like them."

"I love strawberries," he said, taking one from the bowl. "Mmm, delicious."

Charlie slapped his hand away but smiled. "You'll spoil your tea."

"Never. How was your day?"

"Not bad. I spoke to Pat again."

Rory stilled, waiting for Charlie to continue.

"He said that he's still waiting for Sinjin to get back to him. I thought ... well, there isn't much point in calling Liam before we know if Sinjin's interested."

Relieved, Rory nodded. "True." And if luck went his way, Sinjin would scoff at the deal and they would be safe.

"I think Pat's starting to wonder if it might be a good idea."

"Why?"

"Well, I know he's still worried about providing for the family. The advertising work isn't as steady as he'd hoped."

"He's better off than a lot of people."

"I know, but he told me that Mel's still going to have to go back to work shortly."

"And lots of families have two working parents."

"Yeah, but a record deal would mean she didn't have to work. He's starting to look at the advantages. Steady income, Mel at home, baby all secure."

"He might be looking at it that way, but Sinjin's moved on, and as for Liam ..." Rory didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. There had been no direct contact from Liam in the past eighteen months, but they got regular updates from Meg. Liam had settled in to his new life in Sydney, working for his father-in-law, and Karen was expecting their second child at the end of October. Rory thought that the chance of getting Liam to give up his high-paying executive job to go on the road again was close to zero ... but not exactly zero, and that tiny chance worried him far more than it should have done.

"Pat thinks that if Sinjin comes on board Liam will too."

"Do you?"

Charlie shrugged. He finished the strawberries and rinsed his hands, drying them on a convenient tea-towel and turning back to face Rory.

"The band is dead, Charlie."

"We could re-form."

"Fuck that." Rory paused and then looked closely at Charlie. "Do you really want to?"

"No." Charlie thought about that some more. "Maybe. I don't know. Not really."

"Liam won't, for sure."

"I don't know. And I'm not really sure that Sinjin would either."

"He would if the money were good enough. But it would have to be bloody good."

"It might be bloody good, for all we know."

"And it's more likely to be bloody awful." Rory snorted. "They're not a charity. They want to make money off you. Whatever they offer you, they'll want to be making four or five times that amount themselves."

"Not necessarily. We just have to make sure that we get the contract reviewed by a solicitor before we sign, like we did last time."

"Yeah, and that turned out really well, didn't it."

"Well, the money was OK, it was just that the company dropped us."

"And did you ever think that the amount of money they were forced to pay you by contract might be one of the reasons DriveShaft was the first band to be dropped by FYT? And that it might be the reason Rhythm Records sold out in the first place?"

Charlie stopped and stared at him. It was clear that he had never thought about things in that light before. "Do you really think that's what happened?"

"No one knows for sure. But I know Paul Burkholdt was under a lot of pressure that last year with Rhythm. And they were running seriously short of money—FYT picked them up for a song."

"Oh." Charlie looked troubled. "So we caused it ourselves, then?"

"I don't know."

"What do you think?"

"Seriously? I think it was a lot of things. You were over-exposed—not that anyone could have stopped that. You didn't have time to build up a reserve of songs—the second album cleaned you out completely, and once you started touring, you didn't have any time off so you could write. The drugs ... well, I suppose they contributed, too. But I think you'd probably have folded after the third album anyway."

Charlie bit his lip, looking very troubled. "I was going to come out after the third album. I remember telling them that."

Rory put a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "I didn't mean that, Charlie. I don't think that would have made any difference at all."

"But they might have thought it would."

"Maybe. But that's all in the past now, we can't change it, we can't second-guess it. It happened and we move on."

Charlie moved in close and put his arms around Rory's waist. "I just want to be successful. I know I can write, I want to have the chance to show them I can do it."

"You will, love, I know you will." Rory's his arms came up to hold Charlie in a warm and protective embrace.

"I just ... I can't help wondering if this is the only chance I'll get."

"It won't be."

"I know you keep saying that, but I'm just not sure."

"I'm sorry," Rory said again. "I wish he'd made an offer for you, not the band."

"I do, too."

Charlie nuzzled him and that led to a soft, slow kiss. Rory could tell that Charlie wanted comfort and reassurance more than anything, and made sure that he kept things gentle and non-demanding for the moment. He let his hands roam over Charlie's body—his trim waist, his firm shoulders and his nicely-rounded and very enticing arse—letting himself _feel_ , letting himself enjoy the experience of kissing Charlie as an end in itself and not merely the prelude to a quick fuck.

Charlie tasted faintly of strawberries, and Rory smiled to himself. Maybe they could take dessert upstairs to the bedroom—the thought of rolling fresh strawberries over Charlie's skin and then licking up the juice was enticing, to say the least. They hadn't really played with food for a long time—in fact, their lovemaking had become a bit too predictable lately. It was time they did something unusual; something to prolong the pleasure for both of them.

He kissed Charlie's cheek; his jaw; his ear; then moved down slowly and tantalisingly, brushing his lips over the sensitive skin of his lover's neck. Charlie arched up and thrust his hips forward, but Rory was in no hurry—not yet, anyway—and continued his slow exploration of skin while holding Charlie still. He manoeuvred them both so that Charlie was leaning against the kitchen cupboards, and tilted Charlie's head so that he could slide his tongue under the neck of the T-shirt. Charlie shivered and gasped, and Rory felt that familiar thrill of power, knowing that he could elicit anything he wanted from Charlie just by touching him the right way at the right time.

Another deep, slow kiss followed that, and now Charlie was trying to force the pace, trying to get his hand between them. Rory broke off for a moment and pulled Charlie's hand clear. "Not yet, I want this to be slow."

Charlie's eyes widened. He swallowed and nodded slightly, and brought both hands up to cradle Rory's head as the kissing resumed. Rory felt soft fingers sunning through his hair and over his neck, and shivered in turn. Yes, it had been far too long since they had taken the time to do this properly; to caress and tease and pleasure each other.

"I love you," he said, looking directly into Charlie's eyes, those beautiful eyes that could change colour like the seasons. They were blue now, and dark with desire, and Rory felt that he could drown in them.

"I love you, too," Charlie whispered. "I always will."

"Good."

Charlie's hands gripped his shirt and pulled the fabric up, out of his trousers. Warm fingers brushed his abdomen, tracing indefinable patterns over his skin, teasing him as much as Rory was teasing Charlie with his tongue.

Somehow—he wasn't quite sure how it had happened—they were both naked from the waist up, and the kisses had once more become deep and frenetic. He pulled himself away and reached over to pick out one of the freshly-washed strawberries. They were large and ripe, and eminently suited to what he wanted to do to his lover. He held the berry up to Charlie's mouth and watched as his lover took a bite, then he rubbed the raw surface down over Charlie's chin and neck, down over his sternum, right down to his navel. The trail of juice shone in the afternoon sunlight, glinting as Charlie's chest moved in and out with each breath. He popped the half-strawberry into his own mouth, savouring the taste, and then licked his way down from chin to navel, not quite sure if he was cleaning up or adding to the juice that was already on Charlie's skin.

He took another strawberry and rolled it over Charlie's nipples, watching them pucker and rise as he swirled the tip of the berry around each one. They were very responsive, as he well knew, and a determined man could drive Charlie almost to distraction by concentrating on them. He bit into the strawberry and rubbed the raw surface over each one, noting how Charlie's eyes were half closed as he gave himself up to the sensation. He pushed the berry into Charlie's mouth and bent to suck on one nipple, swirling his tongue around the nub and scraping his teeth gently against the skin.

The pressure of his erection was pushing against the fabric of his trousers, but he ignored it for the time being. He wanted Charlie incoherent first, he wanted to see the wild abandon in his lover's eyes, he wanted to hear Charlie's moans ...

He found himself being grabbed and turned, and then his back hit the cupboard doors.

"My turn," growled Charlie, his eyes feral and gleaming as he leaned against Rory.

Rory's instinct, as ever, was to fight back and regain control, but he couldn't deny that the prospect of being teased was as arousing as his plans of teasing Charlie, so he tilted his head back and whispered, "Aye, your turn," as Charlie brushed a strawberry over his neck and under his ear. The berry was cold and he almost shivered as Charlie swirled it in arcane patterns on his skin, then again as he felt the heat of Charlie's tongue following the same pattern, over and around his skin, making every nerve tingle. He took a bite when Charlie pressed the berry against his teeth, savouring the sharp-sweet taste, and watching the as Charlie ate the other half.

"You're sweeter," Charlie whispered.

"Am no'," he muttered, but he was pleased all the same.

A second berry was even more tantalising, as Charlie rolled it over his right hand, following with his mouth. The combination of cold and hot over Rory's skin was tantalising, causing him to shiver as Charlie's tongue flicked between his fingers. Another berry was rolled slowly up the inside of his arm, in gentle swirls, and Rory pressed his head hard against the cupboard in an effort to maintain control.

Charlie used both his hands to undo Rory's belt and flies, dragging the trousers down and undoing his shoelaces. He stepped out of them and kicked the trousers off, watching Charlie with approval as he picked the trousers up and draped them over the back of a chair before grabbing another berry and kneeling down.

With the berry in his mouth, Charlie nuzzled a spiral around Rory's belly button, ruffling through the soft hairs on his stomach. He gave a hiss as the cool wet surface of the berry made its way down the crease of his hip. He could almost feel steam at the point of contact, the contrast was so great.

When Charlie chewed on the berry and spread the pulp over his rapidly engorging cock he groaned and thumped his head back against the cupboard door. His knees were trembling and it was all he could do to stay upright.

"Charlie," he groaned.

Charlie winked at him and took another berry from the bowl, taking one delicate bite before rolling it over Rory's balls.

"You're going to kill me."

"Not before you've fucked me," was Charlie's response, nudging Rory's legs apart and spreading strawberry juice all over his perineum before leaning in to lick it up.

Rory endured this assault for only a few seconds before hauling Charlie up and pushing him back over the table. "Oh, I'll fuck you all right," he growled, "but not before I've played with my food for a bit." He grabbed the bowl and set it beside Charlie. He chose the very largest berry and set it down into his lover's navel, conveniently peeping above the waistband of his jeans. "Don't let that fall," he admonished, and undid the zipper. He pulled the jeans off slowly—he wasn't a complete bastard, after all—and watched Charlie's body contorting in an effort to keep his stomach flat and level. "You're doing well," he murmured, throwing the jeans over with the other clothing. "I might have to give you a reward for that."

"Mmm, what sort a reward will that be, then?" Charlie asked with a smile.

Rory took the berry , bit the end off and then very gently ran it up and down the length of Charlie's cock. Charlie twitched and grunted, but was much less successful at staying still under this onslaught than Rory had been. Once it was completely covered in sticky juice, Rory pushed the berry into Charlie's mouth and began to lick it all up. His hands pressed down hard on Charlie's hips, preventing him from moving, and he used every skill he had learned in the last few years to bring Charlie to the brink of orgasm.

"Fuck, Rory, I'm going to—"

"No," he said, squeezing hard, feeling Charlie buck and struggle underneath him. Not finished with you yet." He waited until Charlie was still again and then reached for another strawberry.

By the time Rory finally let him come Charlie had been reduced to a shuddering wreck, and all but one of the strawberries had been consumed. Rory smiled as he took the last one and bit into it slowly, savouring the sweet-tart taste and firm texture.

Charlie pulled himself upright and reached for the bowl. "Fuck, Rory, you used up all the strawberries."

Rory raised an eyebrow. "I didn't hear you complaining at the time."

"But I wanted us to have strawberries and cream for dessert."

"So we ate dessert first—don't worry yourself about it."

"What do I do with the cream then? It's already whipped."

Rory looked down at his still-hard cock. "I'm sure you can think of something," he said, with a teasing smile.

Charlie looked outraged for just a second, then huffed in mock exasperation. "I'm sure I will." He tilted his head to one side, considering the possibilities, and his smile turned evil. "In fact, I'm very sure."

  
**7.2 -- Dangerous Dreams**

_Friday 6th August, 2 am_

The clock showed a few minutes past two in the morning. Rory blinked and tried to make sense of the nightmare that had woken him—the second in a week. This dream had centred on himself, trying to find his way through a labyrinth of caves, holding up a feeble torch, trying to work out which passage led to the exit and which was another dead end. He had to find a way out, or he'd never see Charlie again.

He'd wandered around the dreamscape for ages, getting more and more frightened, calling for Charlie, hoping to find him before it was too late—before Charlie disappeared forever.

He woke with the knowledge that, in the dream, he hadn't found Charlie. He had never seen Charlie again.

~~~~~

_Friday 13th August 2004_

This time his senses failed him—or perhaps it was merely that he was busy all day and didn't have time to think about Charlie until he got home. In spite of a headache from poor sleep the night before, he felt no inkling of doom when he walked into the living room.

"Hello love," Charlie greeted him with a smile and a kiss.

"Mmm, missed you today," Rory said, sliding his arms around Charlie's waist. He was tired and out of sorts and he just wanted to rest his head on Charlie's shoulder for a while and absorb some of his lover's strength.

Charlie, however, pulled back after just a second and regarded him warily. "I was talking to Pat today," he began, and Rory's heart sank. This was not going to be good news, he could feel it.

"Oh?" he said, taking off his jacket and walking over to the whisky. He poured himself a large drink while Charlie continued: he had a feeling he was going to need it.

"Yeah, Sinjin finally got back to him this morning—he's still in LA, but hasn't got anything on at the moment. Pat said they talked about the offer from Northern Lights and Sinjin said he wasn't keen but there could be some advantages in it."

"What sort of advantages?"

"Well, exposure, publicity, that sort of thing. We might even be able to talk the company into sponsoring our solo work as well, so even if the band doesn't last more than a couple of albums, our individual work will get more recognition anyway."

That, thought Rory, was typical bloody Sinjin—not interested in re-forming the band for its own sake, but cynically prepared to take advantage of the opportunity to further his own career.

"Do you feel the same way?"

Charlie shrugged. "I guess that any publicity is good—and we'd only need one album, really, just enough that people recognise our names."

"Do you really think that's going to compensate for having to deal with Liam again?"

"I can handle Liam."

" _I_ can handle Liam," corrected Rory. "He always got to you."

"You always ended up thumping him."

"And you didn't?"

"Look, if I have to put up with Liam in order to get a record deal, I will. It will only be for a year or two, just enough that we can get some publicity for our solo stuff."

"That's what you think."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that no record company is going to let you go before they've squeezed the last drop of cash out the fans. Whatever deal you're offered, you'll be sucked in to staying with the group for as long as you're making money—and dropped as soon as they think you're not."

"Why do you have to be so cynical about it?"

"I'm not cynical, just realistic."

"You don't want this to work."

"I don't want you back in the band."

"So you just want me to stay at home and cook for you, is that it? And you'll let me do the occasional local gig as a treat?"

Rory blinked. "It's not like that at all -" he began.

"You just don't want me to be successful."

"I _do_ want you to be successful. If this offer had been for you as a solo performer I'd be trying to make it work for you. But you know as well as I do that there is no way the four of you can survive for long if you're all thrown together like you were before. Sinjin's still on heroin—he'll have you and Liam back on it in no time at all, and maybe Pat as well this time."

"No," Charlie shook his head.

"Yes."

Rory stared him down. He knew he was right and he wasn't going to let Charlie delude himself into thinking otherwise.

Charlie's gaze dropped, and Rory silently let out the breath he'd been holding. That vague feeling of pressure in his chest was back, but he did his best to ignore it.

"Come on, Charlie," he said. "You can't honestly tell me that you want to go back to all that crap—the fighting and the arguing and the constant travelling."

Charlie was silent for a few seconds. He looked miserable, and Rory hated what he was doing but he had to make his lover see just how bad it would be.

"Not really," Charlie said, eventually. "I do remember the fights, and I hated the travel. But I loved the actual concerts, I loved playing for people. And Sinjin's right, you know, if we can get some leverage for our own projects, it might be worth it."

Nothing would be worth it, in Rory's opinion, but he held his tongue. Arguing right now wasn't going to help anything, and it was obvious that Charlie was going to ring Liam anyway, regardless of what Rory thought, so he might as well just back away and let him do it. After all, there was always the possibility that Liam would say no and kill the whole idea dead. He'd have to keep his fingers crossed for that.

He poured himself a second whisky. The bottle was almost empty, and he could have sworn he'd only opened it a day or two ago. He shook his head. He was going to have to watch it, he didn't want to get back into bad habits. There were too many days he didn't remember from the year before, and more that he had seen only through a drunken haze. But two in an evening wasn't so bad, was it? He made himself take a sip rather than a gulp and set the glass down on the coffee table. He needed to go and change out of his office clothes, anyway, that would help him feel a bit calmer.

He glanced at Charlie. "So, at the risk of mentioning cooking, have you planned anything for this evening or should I ring up the Thai place?"

"No, I haven't cooked. But there's stuff in the freezer."

Rory shook his head. "Thai will do. Do you want anything in particular? I'll ring up and then go and change."

"Mmm, lemongrass chicken for me."

"Fine. I'll get a green curry as well."

Charlie nodded and went out to the kitchen to start getting plates and cutlery ready. "Oh, Mum asked us both over to lunch on Sunday."

Rory looked up, puzzled and a little annoyed. Sunday lunch at the Pace family house happened about once a month now, and usually Rory welcomed it. He loved Meg, he got on reasonably well with Mike as long as certain subjects were avoided (homosexuality, drugs and Charlie's music career being the top three), and he enjoyed watching young Kevin wrap the two of them around his little finger. This weekend, though, he would have preferred to stay at home. He had a niggling feeling that he hadn't got much time left with Charlie, and he wanted to be with him as much as possible.

"Do we have to go?"

"Well, Tessa's coming up for the weekend. She's bringing her fiancé up to meet the family, and Mum wants us all there."

Rory sighed. They hadn't seen much of Theresa, the older of Charlie's two sisters, since she had moved to London to do her nursing training, so it was hardly surprising that Meg wanted to make the most of her visit and gather the family all together. She'd be in her element, cooking an enormous meal and doing her best to ensure that everyone felt welcome, while the rest of them would be trying desperately to make conversation in a family where too many subjects were taboo.

Oh well, that was Sunday's problem. Right now his problem was to decide if they wanted plain or jasmine rice with their meal.

~~~~~

_Saturday 14th August, 11am_

"I'd better call Liam," Charlie sighed.

Rory stifled his immediate response, which was to stop Charlie getting within three feet of the phone, and nodded. It would have to be done sooner or later, and at least if he was there he could listen in on Charlie's side of the conversation and stop it if Liam became too abusive.

Unfortunately, Charlie must have read his mind, because he headed upstairs.

"Why don't you phone him from down here?" Rory asked, frowning.

Charlie looked a little embarrassed. "I ... I'd prefer it if you weren't listening."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll distract me. I need to tell him about the offer and if you're there I'll just be worrying about you."

"You don't need to worry about me."

"You always get angry with Liam."

"He's a fucking wanker, that's why. And he never takes you seriously."

Charlie sighed. "Yeah, I know. But I know how to make him listen. I have to give it a shot, Rory. I _have_ to."

Rory hesitated. On the one hand, he really didn't want Charlie to call Liam. On the other hand, this was the first time that Charlie had insisted on anything since his return to Manchester, and that was an important milestone. He recalled the advice he'd been given by Dr McKenzie and his therapist—to encourage Charlie to make decisions, even if he thought Charlie was making the wrong decision—and he knew that he was going to have to support Charlie through this, even if it did risk everything they'd built up over the last eight months.

"Aye," he said, eventually, with some resignation. "I know you have to."

He watched Charlie go up the stairs with a heavy heart, and wondered how people could cope with this. Surely there had to be an easier way to help Charlie get better?

~~~~~

Twenty minutes later, Charlie's footsteps were slow and heavy as he came down the stairs, a fair indication that the conversation with Liam had not gone well. Rory took one look at his face and got up to give him a hug.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"He just doesn't care," muttered Charlie. "it's my life and he just doesn't care."

Rory just hugged him more tightly, unwilling to say anything. His own thoughts were a confused jumble of emotions and partial rationalisations. He felt Charlie's disappointment, but selfishly felt glad that he wasn't going to be taken away again. He was angry with Liam for upsetting his lover, but at the same time, he felt an enormous relief that Liam hadn't succumbed to the temptation of the offer. It was a distinctly odd sensation, feeling gratitude to a man he hated, and it wasn't one he was keen to experience for long. And he had to keep supporting Charlie, he had to make sure that Charlie was kept safe and close and not let loose in a dangerous world. And yes, he knew that he wasn't supposed to feel so possessive, but he'd let Charlie make that phone call alone and frankly, that was about as much independence as he could cope with for one day.

  
 _Sunday 15th August, 12:45pm_

Rory parked the car in front of the Paces' house and hoped that Charlie was going to be sensible and keep his mouth shut about the Northern Lights offer. The last thing they needed was another tirade from Mike, not only because of the unpleasantness, but because it would be worse than useless. There was a knack to handling Charlie that Mike never seemed to have grasped, and opposition from his father was more likely to goad Charlie into pushing harder for the band's reformation than to let it go. Rory had learned that the hard way.

Oh well, he'd just keep his fingers crossed and hope for the best.

Biddy opened the door and gave them both a hug.

"Hey Biddy," said Charlie, hugging her back. "How are you?"

Rory cast an appreciative eye over her. It wasn't the first time he'd seen her since her return from Switzerland, but he still wasn't used to the way she had improved in looks and figure. She'd never been plain—in fact she had very pleasant features—but she'd never bothered much about her appearance or clothes before. Today, however, she was dressed in a fitted white shirt and tailored grey slacks, and looked older and more sophisticated than her 20 years—an effect enhanced by the subtle and skilled make-up she wore.

"You're looking very chic," Rory said, hugging her in turn.

She laughed. "Thanks. Mum wasn't too keen on me going to mass in slacks, but the only skirts that fit me now are minis, so ..."

"So she decided she could live with the slacks," Charlie guessed.

"Exactly." They laughed together.

"Europe definitely agreed with you," observed Rory.

"I loved it—I can't wait to go back."

They moved through into the living room, where Rory halted momentarily as he saw a strange man sitting and talking with Mike. He stood up as they entered: a rather non-descript man, with pale skin and light brown hair, wearing a cheap suit.

Biddy made the introductions. "Oh, guys, this is Tessa's fiancé, Luke Browning. Luke, this is my brother Charlie and his friend Rory McManus."

"Partner," said Charlie, leaning across to shake hands. "We're a couple."

Rory almost shuddered, but managed not to react visibly at Charlie's casual declaration. He was going to have to get used to this, he told himself. After all, hadn't he announced himself as Charlie's partner to that sound engineer a couple of months ago? And he'd not complained when Charlie had implied their relationship to various fans over the last few weeks. Why was he still so defensive about it?

 _Because your father told you it was disgusting,_ a small voice sounded in his head. _And Mike thinks so too._

He gritted his teeth and pushed that thought firmly to the back of his mind. Luke hadn't reacted visibly to Charlie's announcement, which Rory supposed was a good thing—the last thing they needed in this family was another homophobe.

Putting on a professional smile, he shook hands, and they commenced the mutual self-descriptions required of the occasion. Rory learned that Luke was a health physicist in the radiotherapy unit at St Thomas' Hospital in London, where Tessa had trained. Apparently his job involved working out how best to administer radiation therapy to cancer sufferers. It didn't sound very interesting to Rory, but he could tell that Luke enjoyed it and found it fascinating.

Tessa appeared from the kitchen, and greeted Rory and her brother warmly. Rory wondered if she was putting on a show for her fiancé, because he couldn't remember her having been quite so effusive before, nor quite so chatty. Of all the Pace siblings, she was the one he knew least well, but she'd always seemed to him very forthright and practical. On the other hand, introducing a fiancé into the clan was enough to make anyone nervous, and he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

Mike had handed him a glass of whisky: it was the Balvenie Doublewood, he noted with approval, and he sipped it appreciatively. It had been a long hard slog to educate Mike's palate—he recalled the blend he'd been offered on his first visit with a shudder—but it was definitely paying off. Charlie headed into the kitchen to find some Coke and say hello to his mother.

He heard Bridget in the hallway calling out for Kevin, which was followed by the thunder of shoes on the staircase and Kevin's arrival in the living room. Charlie's youngest brother was nearly fourteen now and had shot up in the last few months. He was nearly as tall as Charlie, Rory noted, and there was every chance he'd be taller than Liam before he was much older. He was between second and third year in high school, enjoying the summer holidays and making the most of the times when both his parents were at work—which, admittedly, wasn't very often, as Meg had switched to evening shifts for the summer, much to her son's chagrin.

Finally Meg came out of the kitchen, flushed and beaming. She embraced Rory warmly and accepted a glass of sherry from Mike.

"Thanks, dear. We're almost ready—Biddy is just making the gravy now."

"It smells delicious," said Rory.

"It's just a plain roast, nothing fancy. Luke has some dietary restrictions so Tess has been making sure that everything is all right for him."

"Oh?"

"Nothing too bad," said Luke with a self-deprecating smile. "I have ulcerative colitis so I have to be careful about some foods. Onions seem to set me off quite badly—that's the main thing I have to be careful about when I'm not cooking for myself."

Rory thought about all the things that onions were added to, and came to the conclusion that Luke was pretty brave to eat anywhere outside his own kitchen.

They chatted for a few minutes until Biddy put her head through the door to say that they were ready to serve, and then moved through to the dining room.

There was very little conversation for the first few minutes, everyone being too busy eating the truly delicious roast lamb. Compliments were paid to Meg and Biddy, who accepted them graciously, and Rory decided that in the interest of family harmony he would defer asking if Kevin was going to learn to cook until he and Meg were alone.

Meg looked around the table and smiled at them all. "I do like to have all my family around the dinner table," she said, with a very self-satisfied sigh. "Such a pity Liam can't be here as well. It's been weeks since he last phoned."

"I was talking to him yesterday morning," Charlie interjected.

"Really? How is he? I was out when he rang last weekend."

"He's fine. Karen's complaining about getting fat, but he thinks she's doing well."

"That's good. They said everything was fine at the last ultrasound."

"Yeah. Still don't know if it's a girl or boy though."

"Well, it's early days yet."

"It's not like you to ring Liam," Mike noted.

Rory closed his eyes and stifled a groan. Then he kicked Charlie under the table and glared at him, mentally willing him not to mention the contract offer. The look he got in return wasn't promising but with Charlie's next words he relaxed.

"I was just passing on a bit of news from Sinjin—the film he did the soundtrack for last year got an award at some film festival."

"That's good," Meg said.

"Was that the 'Cloudy Days' film?" asked Tessa.

"Yes, it was," Charlie confirmed. "I didn't know you knew about it."

"I saw it on a flyer at the hospital a couple of months ago—one of the local cinemas was having a festival of new independent films."

"Did you get to see it?"

"No, it was only shown twice and I was on shift both times."

"It hasn't been on here at all. I guess I'll have to wait and see if it comes out on DVD."

"Sinjin might send you a copy, if you ask him," added Meg.

"Yeah, I'll ask him next time I speak to him."

Rory supressed a flinch. He knew Meg was only trying to be helpful, but he really didn't want any more excuses for Charlie to be talking to Sinjin.

"So, Biddy," he said, in what was a transparent attempt to change the topic, "how is your holiday going?

Biddy smiled. "Good so far, but I still have some work to do."

"For uni?"

She made a face. "Yes, I have to write out a ten-thousand-word essay on my experiences in Switzerland, with emphasis on the way the three languages have shaped the country and its relationship with the European Union."

"That sounds like a lot of work."

"It is, but it has to be handed in during the first week back so it's important to get it done."

"Have you started thinking about what you want to do after you get your degree?" asked Charlie.

From the reaction around the table, it appeared that Charlie had managed to pick the wrong thing to say, yet again.

"Well, I'd like to do an MA in interpreting and translation before hitting the job market, but it will depend on how things go," Biddy answered, somewhat guardedly.

From the expression on Mike's face, Rory gathered that he had not welcomed the prospect of supporting his younger daughter through yet another year or two of study. He waited for the outburst, but Mike merely ground his teeth and said, "Plenty of time to think about that later in the year."

"Tessa is starting her midwifery course shortly," Meg said brightly, diverting the attention from Biddy. "She's looking forward to it, aren't you, dear?"

"Yes, I am," Tess agreed, and launched into a description of the course. It appeared to involve both hospital work and community attachments, as well as participation in antenatal and post-natal clinics. Rory could tell that it was something she was passionate about, and wondered how long it would be before she was starting her own family. Luke seemed to be a bit of a non-entity in comparison with her, but he suspected that Tess was the sort of woman who would want to rule her own household, and Luke was the sort of man who would let her. Whether his illness had anything to do with that, Rory couldn't tell—and it really wasn't any of his business. His business was Charlie, and that was pretty much a full-time job at the moment.

He sat back and let the conversation wash over him, smiling occasionally at Charlie and encouraging Tessa—as the favoured child of the moment—to continue talking whenever she paused.

Families. Never an easy moment, really.

~~~~~

They had returned from lunch with Charlie's family and were just sitting down with a cup of tea when Rory's mobile rang. He glanced at the display as he picked it up—he didn't recognise it, but the area code was Inverness.

"Hello, Rory McManus."

"Rory, it's your uncle Gordon."

"What's wrong?" He hadn't heard from his uncle in years, apart from a card at Christmas, so it had to be a family issue.

"I'm sorry, Rory. It's ma ... your nana. She died during the night—we came to see her after church and found her in bed."

"Oh." He sat down on the settee. Nana—his maternal grandmother—had never been as strong an influence as his father's mother, who lived in Glasgow, but she had stayed with them a lot when he was little, looking after his mother during her long bouts of depression and during her last illness. He'd always been fond of her, and had visited from time to time, but as with most families, his contact with her for the last few years had been largely by phone and Christmas card.

"The doctor said it was just old age—she'd been getting a bit frail over the last year or so."

"Aye, I got that impression."

"The funeral will probably be Wednesday—do you think you'll be able to come up for it?"

"I should be able to, I've nothing on this week that can't be postponed."

"Good. It'll be at the church at Cromarty, of course, so all her friends can attend."

"Of course."

"Let me know when you're coming up, we'll sort out readings and stuff."

"Aye, I'll let you know. Is this the best number to get you on?"

"It's my home number—I'll give you my mobile as well."

"Send me a text, it'll be easier."

"Aye, I'll do that. Will you let your father know?"

"I will." There was no love between Frank and his wife's family, and Rory didn't blame his uncle for leaving Rory the task.

"Well, I'd better go, I've more people to ring. I'll see you during the week then."

"You will. Bye."

Rory put the phone down and looked up at Charlie, who had been watching him from the doorway.

"My nana—she died this morning."

"I'm sorry." Charlie came over and gave him a hug. "Are you going up?"

He nodded. "My uncle said the funeral will likely be Wednesday."

"Drive up on Tuesday?"

"Aye."

"Erm ... would you like me to come with you?" Charlie was a bit hesitant in offering, which was hardly surprising since Rory had always kept him at arm's length from his own family. In fact, now that Rory thought about it, Charlie had never met a single member of Rory's family. Maybe it was time to change that. On the other hand, if his father was going to be there it would cause problems, and he had no idea how his mother's family would react to a gay man.

He was unaware that he was frowning until Charlie added, hastily, "I don't have to go to the actual funeral, if you don't want me to. I just thought you'd like me to be there if you need me."

Rory nodded and forced a smile. "Thanks. I'd like it if you were there."

Charlie smiled and kissed his cheek. "I think that therapist is doing you a lot of good. You aren't nearly as defensive as you used to be."

Rory thought about that. He still found the sessions with the psychologist very difficult, because he wasn't used to talking about himself or his feelings—he still wasn't used to _having_ feelings beyond anger or lust—but it had helped to understand a bit more what Charlie was going through, and he had found that being more open with Charlie had brought good results, so he had persevered.

The question now, though, was—should he take Charlie to the funeral and admit openly to his family (his mother's side, anyway) that he was gay and living with another man? Or should he accept Charlie's offer to stay in the shadows, there to offer comfort but not to be seen? Would it make much difference in the long run? The north of Scotland was still very conservative when compared with English city attitudes, but he didn't see much of his mother's family anyway, so maybe it wouldn't matter.

Well, he had a few more days before the decision had to be made, and right now what he wanted was that cup of tea.

  
**7.3 -- Family Traits**

_Wednesday 18th August, 9.30am_

Rory eased the hire car out of the hotel car park. It was still raining heavily, though it had lessened from the torrential downpour of the day before, and heavy clouds made it dark and gloomy. The roads were slick with rain and oil, and most cars had their headlights on as they made their way slowly and cautiously through the city streets.

He was glad that they had decided to fly up to Inverness rather than drive up. It was a long trip even in good weather, but the storms over the last couple of weeks had been so heavy that many of the roads in central Scotland were now blocked by landslides or floods, and if they had tried to drive all the way they would probably still be stuck south of Edinburgh. Charlie had suggested flying instead, and Rory had agreed it was better not to risk the leased BMW. So, here he was in a hired Ford, on his way to meet relatives he hadn't seen in years. He wondered if he'd recognise anyone apart from his Uncle Gordon.

Frank wasn't going. Rory had rung him on the Sunday evening, but, as he had suspected, his father had no intention of going to the funeral. The truth was that Frank and his mother-in-law had never got on, even in the early years of the marriage. Nana had blamed Frank for her daughter's depression, and, later, for the delay in diagnosing her cancer. Frank, on the other hand, had blamed Nana for interfering in his marriage and turning his wife against him. Their last contact had been at the funeral of Rory's mother, fifteen years previously, when they had pointedly ignored each other.

Charlie wasn't going, either. They had talked it over a couple of times, and Rory had offered him the chance to accompany him, but Charlie—usually so insistent on being recognised, and resentful of being kept in the background—had decided that his presence would cause problems that Rory didn't need right now, and had opted for a day of wandering the streets of Inverness instead. To be truthful, Rory was thankful for that: he could have coped with the interest and speculation from his relatives, but it would have made things awkward, there was no denying it. He was also thankful that Charlie had made the decision on his own, and voluntarily. Maybe both of them were improving with therapy.

He followed his uncle's directions to Cromarty and parked the car on the waterfront. The rain had eased a little and he hurried up the side street to the church, hoping he wouldn't get too wet. The hearse was already at the door and he hurried inside, finding a space in a pew towards the back. The church wasn't as big as he remembered from his childhood, but back then it had seemed enormous, with the high roof and gallery and the huge pulpit dominating the east wall. It was still much larger than he would have expected for the size of the town, and he wondered if it had ever been filled to capacity. It was very plain, like most Scottish churches, with no decoration save a vase of flowers to one side. It was clean and bright, though, and the woodwork shone with polish. The pews held about fifty this morning, which was more than Rory would have expected, but then of course his grandmother had grown up here and knew almost everyone in the town. He was glad for her sake that so many had made the effort to show their respects.

The service was short, comprising three hymns, two readings and a short eulogy from his uncle, the eldest male relative. He was glad that it wasn't more elaborate—his grandmother had always hated fuss, and she would have wanted a plain, simple funeral. His two uncles and—he presumed—two of his cousins took up the coffin and carried it down the aisle to the waiting hearse, followed by his aunts and the rest of the family in the front rows, and then the general congregation.

People milled around at the front but there was no movement towards the cars, and Rory looked around for someone who might be able to tell him what was going on. He spotted his uncle standing on the steps of the church and introduced himself.

"Uncle Gordon? It's Rory McManus."

"Aye, Rory, I thought it was you." They shook hands and Gordon looked him over. "You're very much like Frank was at your age, when he married Heather."

"I'm told I look a lot like him." He placed a careful emphasis on the work _look_.

Gordon nodded, taking the hint. "There's a lot of your mother there though as well, I can see that."

"M'da told me to give his apologies—he's tied up with work in Glasgow." That wasn't quite true, and they all knew it, but it allowed them all to observe the social niceties.

"I'm sure he's a busy man."

"Aye, he is."

Rory then greeted his aunt Catriona with a kiss on the cheek. She was a short, plump woman, very motherly and warm. "Hello dear, I'm pleased you could get up here. Isn't the weather terrible?"

"Aye, we—I—flew up last night. I didn't want to risk the journey by road."

"I'm not surprised, I've never known so many roads closed. Landslides and floods and goodness knows what else. Jim and Mandy—Gordon's cousins, Rory, you remember them?—they're completely cut off at Lairg. They rang last night and said there was no way they'd get here, poor things."

His uncle cut in. "Speaking of which, did anyone tell you we've made a slight change in the plans?"

"No, what change?"

"Well, Catriona thought it wasn't safe for all of us to be following the hearse to the crematorium."

"Forty miles in all this rain, I should say not," she stated, vehemently.

"So Alasdair and I will go with the hearse, and everyone else will go back with Catriona to Mum's house."

"That sounds like a good idea," said Rory, though in truth he wasn't sure that it was. He hadn't fancied the long drive to the crematorium at all, especially in a hired car, but this way he'd have to stay at the wake at least until his uncles returned, trying to talk to people he barely knew.

"Do you want to walk up with me now, Rory?" asked Catriona. "It's just around the corner so unless your car is blocking something there's no point moving it."

"No, it's fine, I left my car on the waterfront as Uncle Gordon said."

"Good, it should be safe there."

Catriona collected a few more people and they started the walk up to his grandmother's house. It was a white semi-detached bungalow, neat and tidy, which just missed out on a sea view. Once inside, Catriona disappeared into the tiny kitchen to make tea, and Rory looked around at the pictures on the walls and the cheap but well-maintained furniture that had been moved against the wall to open up the rooms as much as possible. The oil heater was on, giving the room a warm glow.

"So much better than a draughty church hall, I thought," said Catriona, coming back with a plate of sandwiches. "I know it's August but the weather's been so dreadful I thought we'd want a bit of thawing out."

"Aye, that's true."

Others from the church had followed Catriona and Rory, and were now taking off their coats and milling around. A few of the women offered to help with the food and making tea, so the men clumped together and started chatting. Rory introduced himself but otherwise said as little as possible, listening to the others catch up with family news and keeping one eye on the clock.

He managed to identify various groups, based on age, accent and conversation. There were two separate groups of older people with the soft accent he always associated with his Nan—they would be the locals. Then there were the cousins, ranging in age from about fifteen to thirty, with accents varying from Inverness to Edinburgh.

Standing on his own was a man of about fifty, with dark hair starting to turn grey at the temples. He was neither handsome nor ugly, neither tall nor short—just a normal, everyday sort of a man. His suit, however, was a little better cut than those worn by the locals, and he had the air of a city man.

He caught Catriona's arm as she came in with more sandwiches, choosing one at random. "Who's the man by the mantelpiece? I can't place him."

Her faced closed off. "Oh, him—that's Alasdair's ... well, he lives with Alasdair." The distaste in her voice was evident.

"Oh," said Rory, non-committally, while at the same time his mind was saying, _Thank God she doesn't know about me and Charlie_. Some evil genius prompted him to add, "It's not illegal, you know."

"I know, but it's not natural. You'd think he'd have had the manners to stay away from a family occasion like this, especially a kirk service."

"Maybe Uncle Alasdair wanted his support in this time of bereavement. It's not easy to lose a mother, no matter how old you are."

Catriona paused. "Oh, Rory, sorry, I forgot that you lost your mum so young."

"Aye, well, I got over it."

She nodded, her eyes a little misty, and then turned to meet someone else who had just come in.

Rory sighed and took a bit from his sandwich. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him that Uncle Gordon was at least another two hours away, and he really wasn't sure that he could cope with much more of his aunt. Her combination of cloying sentimentality and irrational prejudice was grating on him, and he wanted nothing more than to get in the car and go back to Inverness, back to Charlie.

 _What would Charlie do if he were here?_ , he asked himself. He snorted as he realised that he knew only too well what Charlie would do—Charlie would have taken up the gauntlet thrown by Catriona and given her a lecture on gay rights and how gays were no different from anyone else in other respects. Somehow, the thought was reassuring, even if he knew full well that a row of monumental proportions would have followed—it would have been worth it to see the look on his aunt's face. But Charlie wasn't here, and Catriona was, and he had to make the best of it until his uncle got back and he could legitimately escape.

Catriona was escorting the new arrival through the room to one of Nana's friends. She had to go past the man Rory had asked about, and the way she carefully avoided even looking in his direction made Rory grit his teeth. He took another cup of tea and forced himself to walk over to the pariah.

"I don't think we've met," he said, holding his hand out. "I'm Rory McManus, Alasdair's my uncle."

"Jonathan LeFevre," the man replied, shaking hands briefly. "I'm sorry about your grandmother."

Rory shrugged. "Thanks. I loved my Nan, but I didn't see her very often. I'm thinking that my uncles will be feeling the loss much more than I do."

"It hit Alasdair fairly hard," Jonathan agreed.

"It would. It's never easy to lose your mother."

Jonathon nodded. "I lost mine a few years ago—I still miss her."

"Aye, I lost mine as a boy."

There was a short pause, then Jonathan said, somewhat hesitantly, "I saw you talking to Catriona a few minutes ago."

"Aye, she was telling me you're Alasdair's partner."

"I'm sure she never said anything so straightforward," Jonathan said with a rather wry and bitter smile.

"Well, no, she didn't put it like that exactly."

"I knew it would make things difficult, but Alasdair insisted, he said I'm part of the family now and she'll just have to get used to it."

"Some people never do," countered Rory. "It just makes it worse when you try to force them."

Jonathan looked at him shrewdly. "I take it you've encountered this sort of thing before."

Rory hesitated, before saying, "I've seen a lot of prejudice."

Jonathan looked slightly disappointed but accepted Rory's evasive comment. "Did you have to travel far to get here?"

"From Manchester. I was going to drive but the hurricane seems to have dropped half the Atlantic over the hills, so I flew up to Inverness last night."

"Wise. We drove up from Edinburgh and the number of roads closed was unbelievable. I'm just glad that the A9 stayed open."

"Aye, that's a blessing." He paused, then asked, "What line of work are you in?"

"Publishing, actually. I'm a senior editor with the Edinburgh University Press."

"That would be interesting."

"Well, it has its moments. Most of my job is trying to make up for the abysmal level of English education in our junior academics." He shook his head. "You would think an MA or a PhD would be able to cope with simple grammatical forms, but what I see every day is enough to make a grown man weep."

"Just think of how bad it will be in another ten years, when the leet-speakers and texters make it to post-graduate jobs."

Jonathan shuddered. "I hope and pray that I will be safely retired by then."

"No such luck for me. The way the pension age is rising, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to retire."

"Indeed. One of my colleagues is an economist and his views on the future of the country are dire."

"Aren't they always, though? I thought economists were like farmers—you know, no matter how good things are, ruin is just around the corner."

"Pretty much, yes, I have to admit." Jonathon smiled. He was really very attractive when he smiled, and Rory began to understand what his uncle might see in him.

"So," Jonathon continued, "what do you do in Manchester?"

"I run a cleaning business—offices, mainly." He began the usual carefully-edited account of his work, and they continued to chat desultorily until the return of Gordon and Alasdair. To Rory's amusement, once it became clear that he wasn't moving from Jonathon's side, several of his relatives came up to say hello, and although a couple of them ignored Jonathon completely, most were at least tolerant if not openly accepting. Still, it was a sense of relief that he saw his uncles walk through the door. Gordon was waylaid by Catriona, while Alasdair made his way towards them.

Rory could sense Jonathon's slight relaxation as his partner walked through the room. There was no blatant display of affection, but he recognised the subtle scrutiny they gave each other as Alasdair approached. It was the same thing that happened between him and Charlie when they had been separated for any reason— _Are you all right? I'm fine, nothing bad happened_ —question and answer in a the blink of an eye.

He stayed a few minutes more, but now that Alasdair was looking after Jonathon he found himself without a focus and was overcome with the urge to get out of there and find Charlie and check that nothing bad had happened to his own partner.

He made his farewells to Alasdair and Jonathon and the few of his Nana's friends that he remembered before approaching Gordon and Catriona.

"Rory," Catriona greeted him. "Are you away now?"

"Aye, I thought I'd head off back to Inverness before the next lot of rain."

"Good idea," Gordon nodded..

"What are you doing this evening?" asked Catriona.

"I didn't have any plans," he began, cautiously.

"Would you like to come and have dinner with us? It's been so long since we've seen you, we ought to catch up properly."

And be catechised on his work and personal life? It wasn't an appealing prospect, especially now that he had something to hide from them—and there was no way he was going to expose Charlie to her prejudice.

He shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm very tired and it's an early flight. Maybe some other time."

Catriona looked disappointed, but accepted his refusal with grace. He gave her the briefest of hugs, shook hands with his uncle and stepped out of the bungalow. It was time to go home.

He'd almost reached the car when he realised that home was no longer Scotland. Home was wherever Charlie was.

It was odd, but he didn't seem to mind that in the slightest.

  
 _Friday 20 August- club in Leeds_

The club was crowded, the air a little hazy from the cigarette smoke that crept through the room in spite of the best efforts of the air conditioners. Rory sat on a stool in the shadows at the far end of the bar, where he could see, unseen, all that happened on stage.

Charlie was nearing the end of his set, and his voice was getting a little husky. It suited the slightly melancholy mood of the crowd, though, and increased the vicarious intimacy of the performance. The audience was appreciative, listening without heckling, and several of them had bought Charlie's five-song CD during the break. He'd be a happy boy when they finally got home.

Rory sipped his beer and looked at his watch. Only another ten minutes to go—a little more if the crowd insisted on encores—and then they could pack up and be on their way. At this time of night it wouldn't take long to get home, and they could sleep in until lunchtime the next day if they wanted. It was worth the hassle of leaving work early to be here with Charlie.

As if he could sense Rory's thoughts, Charlie glanced over at him at the start of the next song—"Deus ex Machina" and Rory lifted his glass in salute. This was _his_ song, the one Charlie had written for him on Valentine's Day, and it still thrilled him to hear Charlie sing it, whether it was for him alone or in front of several hundred people.

"Excuse me," said a voice at his elbow.

He turned away from the stage, reluctantly, and saw a petite woman, dressed in a fashionable top and skimpy trousers.

"Hi," he answered, neutrally.

"My friend and I," she turned and indicated a nondescript girl sipping a drink at the far end of the bar, "were wondering if you might be able to introduce us to Charlie Pace. We saw you talking to him in the break and I guessed you're a friend, or his manager, or something."

Rory sighed. It certainly wasn't the first time it had happened, and as long as Charlie kept performing it was unlikely to be the last, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. And it was totally illogical for him to feel absurdly jealous when people wanted to reach Charlie through him.

"I'll see what I can do," he muttered, "but he'll be tired after the set. He won't want to chat for long."

"Oh, that would be great! I'm such a fan. I was devastated when DriveShaft broke up. Do you think they'll ever re-form?"

"I don't think so." _Over my dead body,_ he added, silently.

"Oh, that's such a shame. There's a rumour going around that they might be getting back together, and I was so excited when I heard about it. Especially when I thought that Liam might come back from Australia. He was always my favourite. Those gorgeous eyes!" She realised, belatedly, that what she'd said was hardly flattering to present company, and added, hurriedly, "Not that Charlie isn't good-looking as well, of course, but there's just something about Liam."

 _There certainly is, the wanker_ , thought Rory. Paradoxically, the girl's fixation on Liam made him feel a lot better—she wasn't likely to do more than ask Charlie for his autograph and then maybe (if they were lucky) buy a CD. The ones he feared were the die-hard Charlie fans, the ones who were determined to get into his pants and his bed. Rory was apt to deal with _them_ rather abruptly.

"I'll see what I can do," he repeated, and watched her as she returned to giggle with her friend over the prospect of meeting Charlie Pace.

Rory smiled. At least some fans were better than no fans. The nights he dreaded were the ones where no one appreciated Charlie's songs or Charlie's style, when there was only desultory applause and no sales. Those were the nights when Charlie was apt to question his talents, his skills and his very existence, and it took all of Rory's efforts to stop him becoming almost suicidally depressed. Those were the nights when Rory threw caution to the winds, plied him with whisky and fucked him into oblivion.

Sometimes he wondered if Charlie realised how hard it was for Rory to support him all the time—to cater to his moods and whims, to be supportive and placatory and firm in turns. Sometimes Rory longed for Charlie to be a little more logical and pragmatic, less volatile, easier to reason with. But then, of course, he wouldn't be Charlie at all, and that would be worse.

Charlie's song came to an end, there was a gratifying amount of applause, and then the usual wait as Charlie sorted whatever he had to with the manager before he came out to the bar.

"So how'd we do today?" he asked.

"Was good from this side," Rory replied. "There are a couple of girls keen to chat, if you've the time—sounds like they're DriveShaft fans with a Liam fixation, but they seem harmless enough."

Charlie made a face. "You get me a beer and I'll chat to them. Did they want CDs?"

Rory handed him the beer he'd already ordered, saying, "Don't know. There are still some in the bag, if they do."

"Ta." Charlie chugged half the beer and Rory felt a stirring in his groin as he watched Charlie's throat move. He wandered if he could get away with marking him tonight—he had no more gigs for a fortnight, so the only people who'd see them would be his therapist and the pharmacist who handled his methadone, and they already knew about Rory.

He passed several minutes with half his mind envisaging some very pleasant bedroom scenarios and the other half keeping a watch for anyone who might be a threat. Eventually, though, Charlie excused himself from the group of fans, pleading exhaustion, and they finished packing up.

It wasn't until they were nearly home that Charlie spoke again. "Those girls said they were really keen to see the band re-form."

"Aye."

"They can't be the only ones. If there's a lot of support for the idea it might help to get Liam to agree."

"Not likely."

"Sinjin told Pat he'll do it if Liam will. All we need to do is talk to him."

"You've tried talking to him."

Charlie was silent for a few minutes, then said, "Maybe I should go there and see him in person."

"To Australia?"

"I can talk him around."

"I doubt it."

"Are you questioning my powers of persuasion?"

"No, lad, I'm just pointing out that Liam is without doubt the most selfish person I've ever met and there isn't enough money in this deal to make it worth his while. I don't see him abandoning his job and his pregnant wife to go on tour again."

"He loved being on tour."

"He loved the attention, he loved the women, and he loved the booze and drugs. For him, the concerts were just a way to get there."

Charlie sighed. "He loved the music too, be fair."

"Well, maybe he did, but he didn't work at it like you did. The number of times I watched your gigs ... it was easy to see the difference between you. You had your head down or your eyes closed, completely in the music. He was scanning the crowd for girls."

Charlie had to concede that. "Yeah, he always scanned for girls, didn't matter how well it was going."

"So now he has a wife and a family and a father-in-law he doesn't want to piss off. If he can't use the band as a means of getting sex, there's nothing in it for him anymore."

Charlie was silent for the rest of the journey. Rory couldn't believe he hadn't worked it out for himself, but apparently he hadn't. He told himself it was a good thing, that Charlie would take this new knowledge and think it over and see how bad an idea it was to try to get Liam back.

Yeah, right. But he could always hope.

  
**7.4 -- Between Scylla and Charybdis**

_Monday 23rd August 2004 1:30 am_

Rory sat up, sweaty and feeling sick. He hadn't woken Charlie this time though, that was something.

Another nightmare. What the fuck was wrong with him, that he should start having nightmares all of a sudden? He never had nightmares, not since he'd left Glasgow, but he'd had several in the past few weeks—ever since Charlie had told him about the offer from the record company. It had to be connected, even if the nightmares weren't always about Charlie.

This one ... of all the nightmares, this had been the worst. Charlie had been trapped in a room that was filling with water. He was drowning, and looking out of a tiny window. Rory had shouted and shouted, but Charlie couldn't hear him—he'd just looked sad, as if he were saying goodbye.

Rory was scared and he was frightened, no matter how hard it was to admit, even to himself. He couldn't just dismiss it as a coincidence; it all had to be connected. There was something very bad about this proposed record deal with the band, something that boded ill for all of them, but especially for Charlie. He couldn't let it happen—he couldn't stand by and let Charlie sacrifice everything he'd worked for over the last couple of years.

He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to ease the discomfort there. Indigestion again. He'd had a lot of it over the last couple of weeks; it seemed to have started at the same time as the nightmares. He hoped it wasn't anything more than indigestion. He refused to think that it might be anything else. He was only 32, for heaven's sake; it couldn't possibly be a heart attack.

He got up and went to the toilet. Relieving the pressure on his bladder seemed to help, and so did going downstairs for a small glass of whisky. He sat in the dark and looked out of the living room window into the night as he drank a second glass. It wasn't really dark out there at all, with all the lights around the apartment block and on the streets, and the clouds reflecting a dull, sickly orange back to the ground. It was more gloomy than romantic; more ominous than beautiful.

It didn't take long for his thoughts to return to the factor that had been disturbing him for the last few days. He was worried about Charlie. More specifically, he was worried that Charlie was again actively pushing for a band reunion. The disappointment of the initial offer had faded, and now Charlie seemed to be focussing on the insubstantial positives that Jason Sanderson had been pushing—money, publicity and fame. The canny bastard had even offered support for their solo projects, once he'd learned of them. That was the hook that had pulled Sinjin in, and Pat and Charlie had followed.

Rory was very afraid that Liam, now the last hold-out, would change his mind, and then the whole wretched business would start again. Concerts, recordings, photo sessions and promotional appearances: all of them would combine to take Charlie away from him. How long would it take before they were all back on drugs again? Liam was clean now, as far as he knew, but Sinjin was still using, and Rory had no confidence at all in either Charlie or Liam remaining drug-free once the circus started again, as he'd told Charlie several times.

He sat and brooded for nearly an hour before dragging himself to his feet. The pain in his chest had eased and he didn't want to fall asleep down here when he could be next to Charlie. It was going to be a difficult week as it was, and he needed to feel his lover close to him.

He went back upstairs and slid softly into bed. Charlie mumbled something indistinct as the bed moved, but didn't wake. Rory lay on his side and watched his lover sleeping, until sleep overtook him in turn.

~~~~~

When the alarm went off at seven he groaned, and nearly pulled the sheet over his head. He really didn't feel like going to work today; he hadn't slept much at all and felt distinctly weary. He had to get up though—Charlie needed his methadone, and work needed supervising and clients needed to have money collected from them or his da would be on his back again.

Later, as he made his way up from the garage to his office, he gave serious consideration to chucking in the whole loan-sharking business and telling his father to go fuck himself. It was getting ridiculous, all that menace and bluster to get money out of people who were on the skids anyway ... so much effort for a tenner here or twenty quid there. It was tiresome and irritating and he had lost any thrill he got out of bullying people a long, long time ago. He got far more satisfaction from talking a company into accepting a contract that would give him a clear twenty or thirty percent profit, measured in hundreds or thousands of pounds. He had coasted for a week on the thrill of restructuring so that he'd halved their tax liability. With every year that passed, he found the fat cats of industry and government were far more worthy opponents than the poor and oppressed. And it didn't mean he was losing his edge, he was just picking better targets. Where was the glory in bullying some worn-out loser in an anorak when he could get the better of someone in a bespoke suit?

He was fairly sure that Chris felt the same way, too, although they had never discussed it. Ken was the only one who really enjoyed the strong-arm stuff, but Rory knew better than to let Ken out unsupervised—the idiot would lean too hard on someone and bring the fuzz down on them like hounds on a fox.

He opened the office door to find Chris there already. That wasn't much of a surprise, since Chris was there before Rory most days, even before Charlie had started his methadone programme. What was somewhat surprising was Chris's expression, which was darker and more menacing that Rory had seen in a long time.

"What's up?" he asked as he closed the door behind him.

"That eejit Hanley."

Rory closed his eyes. This, he did not need, not today. "Don't tell me he hasn't finished the tender yet?"

"Oh, he's finished it, all right. He put it in the post at seven yesterday evening."

"What?" He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "The fucking cretin! Didn't you tell him it was due today?"

"I did. And I told him last week he'd have to courier it to us."

"Fuck. Did he at least keep a copy?"

"Aye, he says he has it all on his computer."

"Right. Take Ken, go to his office, and stand over him while he prints it out again. I also want a disc with all the files. Get back here as soon as you can, I need to read it through before we drop it in."

"It's going to be tight, boss. And we need three copies, bound."

"I know. Fuck." He took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in his chest. Maybe he was getting an ulcer—he'd read somewhere that ulcers could give you chest pain. "Get back here as soon as you can. Once I've checked them over we can get them bound at Staples."

"Aye."

"What have I got this morning?"

"Nothing much. I'll cancel the meeting with Walter this afternoon—it was nothing urgent, anyway."

"Good."

Rory strode into his office and sat down, opening up the laptop and logging in automatically. There was nothing in his email that needed attention, for which he was grateful. His mind was still churning. He wanted that contract, dammit.

The contract was for a three-year cleaning and maintenance contract for the Territorial Army Centre. It was an attractive opportunity, not least because it would replace a school cleaning contract that was due to expire soon. All his cleaners hated working the schools, and he'd had steadily increasing problems with complaints and absenteeism over the preceding months. The army centre would bring its own problems, of course, but the relative absence of chewing gum was seen as a major bonus.

Unfortunately, drafting the tender had proved a little more difficult than he had anticipated. Ministry of Defence tenders had to be organised and formatted in a specific way, one that Rory and Chris hadn't been familiar with. Hanley's accounting firm had handled a lot of local MOD contracts and Hanley had assured Rory that they could take his figures and put them into the correct format much faster than he could, saving them time and money. Rory had had some misgivings—he hated providing any information to an outsider—but time had been short and he had judged it worth the risk. Now, however, he was bitterly regretting that decision.

And Hanley was going to be bitterly regretting his mistake just as soon as Rory had lodged that tender.

Chris returned with the files just after ten—a two-inch pile of papers and a CD. Rory loaded the disc files into his laptop while Chris arranged the papers on the desk, and then they set to work while Ken manned the phone from the front office. It took them over three hours to go through, line by line, checking for errors and misprints. After the first hour Rory decided that he could live with minor typographical errors.

Finally, sometime after two, they finished. Chris took the files to print the final copy and Rory stood up and stretched. Luckily for Hanley's continued health, his team hadn't made any serious errors in the cost estimates, and Rory was happy that they could provide the contracted services and still make a reasonable profit. There was still the issue of his incompetence in delivering the tender, but Rory would deal with that tomorrow.

Right now he had to stretch his legs and walk off some of the irritation. Maybe he could get something to eat—Ken had brought them both a sandwich for lunch, but it hadn't done much to alleviate the churning in his gut that had persisted all morning.

He left the office, telling Chris he'd be back in half an hour or so, and headed to the delicatessen down the road. He took his time, absently wondering if Charlie was going to be cooking that night. Maybe he could pick up a couple of pork pies to take home ... or maybe not, since the last time he'd had cold pork pie he'd had nightmares.

Mentally shaking himself, he ordered his roll and returned to the office, where Chris was giving Ken his final instructions. Rory nodded at them and settled back into his office, catching up on the work he'd had to abandon for the tender.

It was maybe an hour later when Chris called him.

"Mr McManus?" That got his attention—Chris generally called him "Boss" unless something serious was going on.

"Aye," he replied, somewhat warily, and waited for the bad news.

"I have two polis here from London, they want to talk to you."

Rory swore to himself. Police. As if he needed anything else to make his day worse.

His heart sank even further as he registered that they were from London. He'd had the occasional interview from local cops over the years, but police coming up all the way from London could mean only one thing—Tuomi Saastimoinen. Fuck! Of all the days they had to choose ... six fucking months they'd faffed about and they had to pick today of all days to question him?

"Send them in, then." He sighed and flipped the laptop shut, pushing it to one side. He took a deep breath, feeling a bit of tightness in his chest, but not wanting to think about it.

The door opened and Chris ushered in two police in plain clothes. The older one was average height, with a thin pale face and greying hair, looking a bit like a very intelligent rat. The younger one was taller, darker and less alert. Neither of them seemed particularly hostile, though, which was a better start than he'd hoped for.

The elder one spoke first. "I'm Detective Inspector Pointer and this is Detective Constable Williamson. We're from the Metropolitan CID. You are Francis Ruaraidh McManus?"

"I am, though I go by Rory. Francis is my father." He gestured for them to sit down, asking, "What can I do for you?"

"We have a few questions for you."

"What about?"

"We're investigating the murder of a Finnish national, Tuomi Saastimoinen, in London. I believe you may have been acquainted with him."

His first instinct was to deny any knowledge of the man, but Charlie had already been questioned, back in April, and no one would believe that he was completely unaware of what had happened. "I never met him," he said. "My ... my partner did, though, a couple of times last year." And fuck that, he'd just come out to the police, not that they hadn't known anyway, but still ... at this rate it wasn't going to be long before everyone in the entire country knew he was gay.

"That would be Charles Pace, musician, currently residing with you in Whitefield?"

"Charlie, yes."

"Our colleagues here took a statement from Mr Pace in April concerning his acquaintance with Mr Saastimoinen. Are you aware of that?"

"Aye, I know. And I know what he said." He couldn't quite keep the growl out of his voice, but then the police wouldn't expect him to be happy about it.

"Quite." There was a bit of an awkward pause during which all three men tried not to squirm at the thought of being raped and beaten.

"Have you had any contact with Mr Saastimoinen yourself?"

"No." It was a flat-out lie, but he was good at lying.

"Have you been to London recently?"

"No."

"When was the last time you were in London?"

Rory had to think about that. "Och, it would be a couple of years at least ... 2002 maybe? Aye, June 2002. The DriveShaft concert in London, the end of their European tour. There was a big party afterwards and Charlie invited me." It had been their last big concert, in fact, because Rhythm Records had been bought out just three weeks later, but he doubted the police were interested in that small detail.

"You didn't by any chance go there in February or March this year?"

"No, why?"

"What about your colleagues?" The inspector gestured to the outer office.

"I don't think so. We've been pretty busy this year." He hoped they weren't going to question Chris or Ken. _Stupid_ , he thought, of course they'd question Chris and Ken—they were known to be his enforcers. He'd just have to hope that neither of them slipped up, Ken especially.

"We'll verify that, of course."

"Of course."

The inspector consulted his notebook and then asked, "Have you ever met a Peter Penrose?"

This time Rory didn't have to feign a puzzled expression. He'd never heard the name before and said so.

The inspector let it pass, and moved on. "It must have been very distressing for you to learn what had happened to your partner," he said, and either he was as good an actor as Rory or he was genuinely sympathetic.

"Not as distressing as it was for him to go through it.'

"Did you advise him to go to the police?"

Rory shook his head. "He didn't want to. It was his word against that bastard's and he was frightened."

"There might have been evidence."

"I doubt it. It was weeks before he told me, and all the bruises had faded by then."

"There could still have been traces of his presence in Mr Saastimoinen's flat, though."

 _Aye, and a lot more besides,_ thought Rory, but he wasn't going to be caught out that easily. "What would it prove except that Charlie was there? It would still be his word against the Finn's. He was a known heroin addict, homeless, criminal record." He looked Pointer in the eye and said, "You know how it is. You know what they'd have put him through. Better to let it go and concentrate on getting over it."

"Did you ever think about taking some sort of revenge yourself?"

"Aye, I thought about it," he growled. It wouldn't hurt to admit that—he'd be less than human if he hadn't thought about it, and thinking wasn't a crime.

"And?"

Rory shrugged. "I couldn't leave Charlie. He was sick, really sick—he had pneumonia and he wasn't stabilised on the methadone yet. He was also frightened that Tuomi would follow him to Manchester. Aye, I'll confess if he had, there might have been murder done. But he didn't, and I had to stay close to Charlie. By the time he was better, it wasn't quite so urgent. I figured I'd have plenty of time to work out what to do." He shrugged again. "Then the police questioned him and told him Tuomi was dead."

"How did you feel about that?"

"Happy he was dead, angry I couldn't make him pay for what he did to Charlie."

"You called him Tuomi?" asked the sergeant, his voice carefully uncurious. "I thought you said you'd never met."

Rory remained calm. "Charlie called him Tuomi. I didn't know his surname until long after."

"So you are quite sure that you never travelled to London in February, and you never met Mr Saastimoinen?"

"Quite sure."

The inspector smiled, and it had a predatory note in it, like a very polite shark. "No doubt it would surprise you to know that we have a witness who describes three men—men who bear a striking resemblance to you and your two colleagues—with Mr Saastimoinen in his flat in London in February, on the same day that he disappeared."

Witness? That floored Rory for a moment—what witness?. They hadn't seen so much as a curtain twitch either coming or going, and they'd been careful to keep their heads down as they entered and left the flat. There was no way anyone could have given the police an adequate description—certainly nothing detailed enough for anyone to make the connection to Rory.

Then, with a sinking heart, he remembered the boy they'd found in the flat, terrified and tethered to the wall: another one of Tuomi's victims. Ken had cautioned him against letting the boy go, but Rory had considered it a small enough risk. The kid had been a junkie, already into withdrawal, stuttering and twitching and as anxious to leave as they'd been to see him go.

The inspector had mentioned a Peter Penrose a few minutes back—it was probably the boy's name. He had to be the witness, he was the only one who knew they'd been in Tuomi's flat. But if it was him, why wait until now to tell the police? It was almost six months since Tuomi's death, and he couldn't believe the police would have taken that long to make the connection. Fuck, this was going to require some serious tap-dancing.

Rory gave his own shark smile, one which trumped the inspector's in every way. "I'd be very surprised indeed. Incredulous, even. But then, there are millions of men in the UK—an awful lot of them will resemble me and my colleagues. It's probably just a coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidence," said the inspector. "I think it might be a very significant finding."

"You're entitled to think whatever you want, it's still a free country."

"You won't mind if we question your colleagues?"

Yes, he fucking well would, but he had more sense than to say it, or even to hint at it. "Not at all. I doubt they'll be able to add anything, though."

The inspector nodded, and they both rose and went up to the outer office. Rory could hear them talking to Chris, but he had no worries there. Chris was as solid as a rock. Ken, now, Ken was more of a worry. He was tough, but he wasn't all that bright, and Rory feared that the police might trip him up with some fancy questioning. Luckily Ken was still out delivering the tender that had consumed so much of his day, and Rory hoped he'd stay out until the police had gone and he could give him a refresher on the official story.

He sighed. How the fuck had the police got hold of the boy? And what had he told them, the ungrateful bastard? A description was bad enough, but what else had he told them? Maybe Ken had been right, maybe he ought to have topped the boy ... but no, he couldn't have killed him in cold blood. Mind you, if he met him anytime soon he'd give him a crash course in manners, one which he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

He sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He was sweating—he hoped the police hadn't picked up on it too much, or had ascribed it to the humidity. That indigestion was back again, too, fuck it, he was going to have to go and see the doctor if it continued. But not today. Today he had too much to consider and plan, he had to talk to Chris and Ken, and he had to evaluate the risk of them talking to Charlie again—who might just remember being dumped on his parents for a day back in February and come to some fairly distressing conclusions. In the meantime he reached for the roll of antacid tablets he'd put in his desk the week before, and swallowed a couple. They tasted like chalk, but they did seem to ease the pain a little.

Damn the police for turning up like that. He thought he'd handled it reasonably well, considering that he'd had no warning at all. It was clear that they had some circumstantial evidence, but not much, not yet—not enough to bring him in for questioning and a DNA test, let alone enough for an arrest. He had no doubt that they would try their hardest to get a sample from him, and there was always a small risk that he—or Chris or Ken—had left some traces in Tuomi's flat. But they hadn't been there for long, and from what the police had told Charlie back in the spring, it had been almost four weeks before they'd found Tuomi's body, so things had undoubtedly got a bit muddled. He could only pray that they stayed muddled.

The police obviously got very little out of Chris, because it was barely ten minutes later that the door opened and Chris leaned in. They looked at each other.

"I'll get hold of Ken before he comes back and take him for a drink," said Chris in a low voice. He understood the risks.

"Thanks, Chris."

There wasn't much else to say, so he simply nodded and opened up the laptop again. It was hard to concentrate, though—that pressure in his chest hadn't really eased with the tablets. He grimaced. He was going to have to ring Dr McKenzie soon and get himself checked out, it was getting beyond a joke.

He looked at the clock—a couple of minutes after four. Oh, what the hell, he was going to leave early for once.

He shoved the laptop into his briefcase and picked up his jacket. "I'm away home now," he said to Chris as he came out of his office. "I'll be back in the morning,"

"I'll lock up. And I'll get hold of Ken before the police find him."

He nodded and left, heading down the stairs to the garage. The roads were much less busy than in peak hour, for which he was grateful, since he was having difficulty concentrating properly with all the tension and the discomfort.

~~~~~

He'd imagined surprising Charlie at some domestic task, or playing his guitar, or reading.

What he found was Charlie was on the internet, halfway through booking a flight to Sydney the next day.

Rory stood there, briefcase in hand, mouth open, transfixed in shock. "What the fuck are you doing?" he exclaimed, as soon as he'd recovered enough to breathe.

Charlie looked a little shame-faced, caught out in his deceit. "I have to go and see Liam. I have to talk to him in person."

"I thought we'd agreed you weren't going to go." He took a deep breath, then dropped his briefcase on the sofa and took off his jacket. "I thought we'd agreed that it was a waste of time."

Charlie frowned. "Jason rang this morning. He said he'd got formal approval to support one solo album for each of us in addition to the DriveShaft albums. And they've increased the offer by another ten per cent advance payments and two per cent royalty. That adds up to a fair amount over three years."

"I still can't believe Liam would be interested."

"I talked to him, this morning. He was coming around, I know he was. He just didn't want to admit it. He was just acting like a prick, like he always does."

Rory shut his eyes for a second. That weight in his chest was getting worse every minute. "I still don't see why you have to go there. If Liam's being a prick on the phone he's not going to be any nicer in person."

"I have to talk to him. I have to try to make him see that it's the right time for DriveShaft to re-form, to make a new album."

"Charlie, don't do this. Please." He hated pleading, but it scared him and Charlie was being an idiot and there was something terribly wrong with the world today.

"I have to try. The record company wants the band, not just me."

"They want the money. I've told you that. Why are you so bloody oblivious?"

"I'm not."

"Then why are you trying to re-create a situation that caused nothing but trouble?"

"Because I want to. I want to be a success again."

"You will be, but not on these terms. Bide your time, and get a better deal in a couple of years."

"You just don't want me to leave. You want me to stay here and be dependent on you."

"No! That's not true."

"Jason says you are."

"Jason? You're taking fucking relationship advice from an accountant now?"

"No! But he's right, you're trying to keep me from being a success."

"I'm not!"

"Then why are you trying to stop me doing this?"

"Because it's the wrong thing to do. It's not the right deal. I keep on telling you that and you just don't fucking listen."

"Because you refuse to accept that this is our only chance to revive the band!"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Rory exploded, as much in fear as anger. "You're so fixated on that bloody band you can't see anything else! DriveShaft is dead. Let it rest. Get on with your life."

"It's not dead!"

"It fucking is, and if you can't see that then you're even more stupid than I thought you were."

"You think I'm stupid? I'm not. I'll prove you all wrong. I'll go to Australia and I'll talk to Liam and I'll fix it and the band will be a success and you'll just see how wrong you are!"

Rory fought the urge to take hold of Charlie and shake him until he saw sense. Only the memory of that disastrous fight two years before stayed his hand. Instead, he took a deep breath, pushing against the discomfort. He had to talk sense into his lover, had to stop him flying halfway around the world to talk to the one person who had always made everything worse, who was the centre of everything that had ever gone bad for Charlie. He had to stop Charlie going to Sydney—it was absolutely imperative that he stopped Charlie from leaving. He knew—somehow he just _knew_ —that he'd lose Charlie forever if he left now.

He had to stop Charlie ... but the sense of weight in his chest was getting worse, it was pain now, and he felt as if he couldn't breathe, like there was something around his chest, stopping him. It hurt, it really hurt, and he couldn't concentrate on what Charlie was saying.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing. Indigestion." He pressed his hand to his sternum, but it didn't help. He felt as if one deep breath would ease it, but he couldn't take that breath. The constriction in his chest was getting tighter and tighter, and the pain was starting to moving up into his neck.

"It's more than indigestion. You look grey." Charlie sounded concerned, then his voice rose almost to a screech. "Oh my god, you're having a heart attack!"

Rory shook his head. It couldn't be a heart attack. He was only 32, for fuck's sake. No one had a heart attack that young, did they?

On the other hand ... things were going rather wobbly.

  
**7.5 -- Lost Direction**

_Monday 23rd August (continued)_

Rory sat down on the settee and tried to hold on to consciousness. He vaguely heard Charlie calling 999, demanding an ambulance, giving the address and then rushing back to him.

"It's all right, Rory, the ambulance is coming. Just don't die on me."

"Not going to die," he managed to whisper. It was getting harder to breathe—as if someone had put an iron band around his chest and was tightening further it every minute. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was getting rather frightened. He was starting to feel sick from the pain, and he concentrated on not throwing up. He grasped Charlie's arm and clung on for dear life.

"You can't die, I love you." Charlie was holding him and stroking his hair with his free hand, kissing him and muttering words of love and fear and devotion.

He wasn't sure how long it took the ambulance to get there; it was at once an eternity and a moment. There were two of them, ambulance officers, taking his pulse; fitting an oxygen mask on to him; putting a tablet under his tongue; inserting a needle into his arm—and that hurt like a bitch. He tried to fight them off but he was as weak as the proverbial kitten. Then he was being lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled out of the flat.

By the time he was secured in the back of the ambulance the pain in his chest had eased a fraction, but was still significant. The oxygen coming through the mask was cool and reduced the almost claustrophobic feeling he'd had earlier, which was good. He took breaths as deep as he could—still not nearly as deep as he wanted—and tried to remain calm.

Charlie was allowed to ride with them, in the front seat, while the paramedic stayed with him in the back. Rory was glad of that—Charlie might have his licence back but he was in no state to drive safely. He had to make sure that Charlie was all right.

The paramedic asked him if he still had chest pain. When he nodded, he was given another tablet, placed under his tongue like the first one. He grimaced, but had to admit that the pain was easing a little further.

Then they were at the hospital, and Rory was being wheeled into the Emergency Department and transferred from stretcher to trolley. Charlie was dismissed to the waiting area as a doctor and a nurse started their assessment. They moved around him, examining him, taking blood and attaching electrodes to his chest, wrists and ankles, all the while questioning him. How long had he had the pain? How bad was it? Did it go through to his back or into his neck or down his arm? Had he had it before? Had he been sick? Was he feeling sick now? Did he feel faint? Was there any history of heart attacks in the family? Did he have asthma? High cholesterol? Ulcers? Was he on any medication? How much did he drink? Did he take any other drugs, prescribed or recreational? Did he smoke? Had he ever smoked? How much exercise did he do? Was he under a lot of stress?

The last question almost made him choke. He knew damned well he was under a lot of stress—work contracts, his father, Charlie, the band, his grandmother's death, and the police interview that had hit him like a ton of bricks that afternoon—but it was far too dangerous to start going into details. He mentioned work pressures and his grandmother's death and hoped that they would leave it at that. He was exhausted, and all he wanted was to get rid of this pain in his chest and go to sleep.

The questions stopped soon after that, and the doctor started injecting something into the cannula in his arm. "It's just a bit of morphine to ease the pain—it may make you feel a little bit sleepy."

He could feel the chill of the liquid moving up his arm. It wasn't painful, really, but the cannula was uncomfortable. Soon, however, he felt the pain in his chest melting away, and found that he could take the deep breath he'd been craving for what seemed like months. It was a blessed relief.

"All gone?" asked the doctor.

He nodded.

"Excellent. I've ordered a chest X-ray for you, that should happen soon." He placed a call button under Rory's hand. "Press the button if you need anything or if the pain comes back."

Rory drifted in and out of sleep—or unconsciousness—for the next hour or two. Charlie was allowed back in and stayed close to the trolley, clutching his hand, looking wild-eyed and anxious. Rory tried to smile at him, but was too drowsy. He squeezed Charlie's hand, though, and got a weak smile in response.

"I'll be all right, Charlie. Don't worry." His voice sounded muffled through the oxygen mask, and he tried to speak a little more loudly so Charlie could hear him. "I'll be fine."

"You're having a heart attack, I can't help worrying."

"They aren't sure yet, they said so. And I'm not going to die. Not today, anyway."

"You'd better not." Charlie attempted a smile, which turned out rather watery, but at least he was making an effort.

People wandered in and out of his cubicle frequently, all with their different tasks. The portable X-ray equipment was rolled in and the radiographer took the X-ray, apologising as the cold plate was put under his back. A nurse wanted him to pee in a bottle so that they could test his urine. Another nurse took his pulse and blood pressure again and ran another ECG. They were waiting on the blood results, they told him, to determine whether he went to a ward or to coronary care, but it wouldn't be long now. They all had professional smiles and a cheerful confidence, whether real or assumed.

Finally the doctor came back, looking quite cheerful. "Well, Mr McManus, it's good news. You doesn't look like you've actually had a heart attack, just a severe attack of angina. The ECG shows some ischaemia—that's basically stitch in the heart, indicating that the heart muscle wasn't getting enough oxygen. However, the blood tests show no significant rise in your enzymes so far, and that means that you haven't killed off any of the cardiac muscle."

Rory felt a huge sense of relief. "That's good news."

"Definitely."

"Can I go home then?"

"No, not right now, I'm afraid. I've paged the medical registrar to come and review you. It's still a fairly severe angina attack, and there is the possibility that the ECG and enzymes may change by morning. I'm also concerned about your health in general. Your blood pressure is very high—though some of that will be due to the pain—and so is your cholesterol. Both of those are risk factors for heart attacks so we want to try and get them under control as soon as possible. Also, your liver enzymes are up a bit—we'll have to talk to you about your alcohol intake too."

Rory groaned. Whisky was the only thing holding him together at the moment; if he had to give it up he'd go to pieces.

"So, the medical registrar will see you and will decide if she wants you admitted or not. I'd say she probably will, mainly because of the risk factors. I think that we should make sure that's all under control before we let you go."

That didn't sound good at all. "How long will I be in?"

"That's up to the medical team. If all goes well, just a couple of days." He smiled and was gone, on to the next patient in the never-ending queue of emergency cases.

Charlie looked a little more relaxed now that he was assured Rory wasn't going to die. "A couple of days isn't too bad."

"With luck I'll be back home by the weekend."

"That would be good. Can't have you in hospital on your birthday."

Rory blinked, but then remembered—his birthday was on Saturday. He'd forgotten about it completely in all the dramas of the previous few days. "I'll be home by then. I hope you're going to make me a cake."

"Of course. Rich chocolate cake. I even went and got some couverture for the icing."

"Sounds delicious."

"Well, I know it's your favourite, and I found a new recipe for the icing I wanted to try."

"I'll definitely have to be home then."

"You will."

There was a long pause, then Charlie said, in a small, quiet voice, "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"This is my fault."

"You didn't cause it."

"It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been so keen on getting the band back together."

Rory closed his eyes. Whether or not he agreed with it—and it was very tempting to blame the band for all of this—he didn't have the strength to cope with Charlie indulging himself in an orgy of guilt and self-recrimination, not right now.

He squeezed Charlie's hand. "Look, we can talk about it when I get home. Not here."

"But -"

"Not here, Charlie."

Eventually Charlie nodded. "All right. But I'm still sorry."

They sat in silence until the medical registrar, Dr Graham, arrived. She went through all the same questions again, then asked Charlie to leave while she did a brief examination. After that, she spent a few minutes examining the test results, then gave her verdict:

"Yes, I think we need to keep you for a few days to make sure that this doesn't develop into an infarct—and yes, that's still a possibility. You have a lot of cardiovascular risk factors that we need to get under control, otherwise you'll be back in here in a couple of months, and I really don't think you want that."

"Definitely not." He grimaced.

"Right, then, I'll go and do the paperwork. I'm not sure which ward you'll be on—we're a bit tight on beds tonight—but I'll make sure that you have some bloods written up for the morning, and another ECG. I'm also going to write you up for some drugs for your blood pressure and cholesterol. I'll come and see you before lunch."

"OK."

She smiled at him. "And please don't worry too much. I know it's been very unpleasant for you, but this is probably a good thing in the long run—you've had a warning, but you haven't lost any heart muscle. This gives us the chance to get all the other things under control and reduce the risk of you ever having a heart attack in the future."

"Aye, I can understand that." He hoped that she was right, and that everything else could be brought under control, especially the things that the hospital knew nothing about.

She left him, intent on her paperwork, and Charlie returned. It was nearly eleven o'clock now, and Rory was exhausted, but he found sleep difficult on the uncomfortable trolley and with so much going on around him.

"You'll have to get yourself to the chemist in the morning," he said, in a low voice.

Charlie made a face. "I guess so. Still," he continued, more cheerfully, "at least I have my licence now."

"Could you drive after taking the methadone?"

Charlie nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem as long as I don't hang around too long and drive straight home. It's only five minutes away, and the methadone doesn't make me as sleepy as the heroin, you know that."

Rory knew that, but he still wanted to be sure. "You'll have to ring Chris too, let him know what happened." That was vitally important after the police interview earlier, but Rory didn't want to discuss that here. He hoped that Chris would have the sense to keep it to himself and let Rory break the news to Charlie in his own time.

"I'll do that as soon as I get back from the chemist."

After another hour or so, a porter came to take him to the ward, and Charlie was sent home in a taxi, with Rory's wallet and phone (since he had completely forgotten to bring his own with him), promising to return just as soon as he could the next day.

Rory was taken to a general medical ward and transferred to a bed. There was more delay while the nurses took their own history and wrote up a nursing plan, and then made sure he was attached to a small portable monitor and an IV pump. Finally, long after midnight, he was allowed to sleep ... or at least, to try and sleep. The hospital bed was more comfortable than the trolley, but there was too much noise around him—machines humming and beeping, other patients snoring, footsteps in the corridor, and even traffic outside. Nurses did their rounds, waking him just as he had dropped off to sleep so that they could test his pulse and blood pressure. He wasn't allowed up to go to the toilet, and was forced to use the bottle they gave him. The electrodes they had attached to his chest started to itch, but he wasn't allowed to take them off. His back was starting to ache from the unaccustomed immobility, but he couldn't roll over because of the drip in his arm.

All in all it was a pretty good candidate for being the worst day of his entire life. He wallowed in self-pity for a few minutes and then then told himself that at least he still had a life.

  
 _Tuesday 24th August_

At six the ward began to come to life again as the day shift started. Rory had dozed off for a couple of hours, but was woken to have more blood samples taken, and that was followed by another ECG. Breakfast was delivered at seven—a small packet of cereal with skim milk and some toast—and the tray collected at half past. He was allowed up for a shower, which he found very refreshing, and was able to swap the hideous hospital gown for a set of equally hideous hospital pyjamas. After that, though, there was nothing to do but wait for the registrar. He had no books to read, he had no interest in daytime television, and the hospital radio featured only bland "easy-listening" stations. All in all, he was very glad to see Dr Graham when she turned up at a little before eleven, with an intern, a medical student and a ward nurse in tow.

"Well, Mr McManus, how are you this morning?"

"Not so bad."

"Any chest pain during the night?"

"Not pain, just a little bit of discomfort."

She frowned at that and spent a couple of minutes looking at the morning's ECG while the intern phoned the lab for the blood results. She listened to his heart and chest again, and seemed happy with what she heard. When the intern came back, with the results scribbled on a piece of paper, she compared them with the ones from the night before. Finally she seemed satisfied.

"Well, Mr McManus, it looks like everything is stable, so that's good news. The cardiac enzymes didn't go up overnight so we're confident that it was merely angina and not a myocardial infarct."

"That's good."

"It is. I'm a little worried about the continued discomfort, though. It could be a partial obstruction of an artery, or it could be just a spasm. I'm ordering a nuclear medicine scan of your heart to see if there are any perfusion defects—any areas of heart muscle that aren't getting enough blood. I think we should also do a coronary angiogram—that's a type of X-ray where we put some contrast into your blood and watch it going through the coronary arteries. We'll be able to see any blockages or constrictions."

"What happens if there are blockages?"

"There are procedures we can do to widen a partially blocked section, using an inflatable balloon. If there's a complete blockage—and I doubt that, because it would have showed up on the ECG and blood tests—we can try replace that section with a vein from your leg. That's coronary bypass surgery."

Rory shuddered. He hoped that wouldn't be necessary. It was bad enough that he was in hospital in the first place, but he definitely didn't want an operation.

"We'll get the scan booked right now, and I'll see you again tomorrow morning. If you get more chest pain—or even a mild discomfort—please let the nurses know at once."

"I'll do that."

"Your BP is a bit lower than yesterday, which is good. I expect it to fall significantly over the next couple of days, so be very careful getting up. If you have any giddiness or feel unsteady on your feet, let the nurses know."

Rory nodded.

The registrar left, trailing the others behind her, and Rory was left in relative peace for a few minutes, until the lunch trolley arrived. The meal was as bad as he had expected: some sort of mince, with boiled cabbage and mashed potato. He shuddered. Other containers revealed canned tomato soup, which he wolfed down, and a small serving of apple pie, with low-fat ice-cream. There was a plastic mug of hot water, accompanied by a small sachet of instant coffee and a teabag, but given the choice of revolting coffee or revolting tea, he decided he wasn't that thirsty after all.

After the meal trays had been collected, there was nothing for him to do but contemplate his navel until visiting hours started. He couldn't count the cracks in the ceiling, because the ceiling was a layer of noise-reducing Styrofoam panels, all neatly arranged. There weren't even any water stains to add interest. The other men in the ward were all extremely old and slept whenever they weren't being attended by a nurse, or were glued to their TV sets (thankfully equipped with headphones).

At last, a wave of relatives and friends trailing into the ward announced the commencement of visiting hours. Rory knew that Charlie would be visiting, but as the minutes passed without his lover appearing, he started to worry. Had anything happened to Charlie? Had the police decided to question him again over Tuomi's death? Had he had an accident? Had he been wrong about being able to drive after methadone?

Just as he was starting to worry that the worry was raising his blood pressure, Charlie came into the ward, his face anxious as he scanned the beds and their occupants. As soon as he caught sight of Rory his features relaxed, he broke into a smile and hurried over.

"I'm sorry I'm late, it took them forever to find out which ward you were on," he explained, grasping Rory's hand and sitting on the edge of the bed. "This isn't the usual ward for heart cases."

"Well they said they were full. And you're here now, that's what's important."

"I know, but I was worried you'd be bored."

"I was."

Charlie rummaged in the bag he was carrying. "I brought you some books to read, and my mp3 player. I know you don't like my music much but I thought it would help pass the time."

Rory had to smile. He doubted that he'd like half of what was on there, but it was a thoughtful gesture on Charlie's part, and he appreciated it. He set the books and the mp3 player to one side to look at later.

"Thanks. Did you have any trouble this morning?"

"No, went like clockwork."

"Did you ring Chris?"

"Yes, he said that everything was under control and he hopes you get better soon."

"Good. Did he say anything else?"

"No, just that he could handle anything that might come up in the next few days."

Rory nodded. He was extremely lucky to have Chris and he knew it.

"I told Mum you're in hospital—she said she hopes you're feeling better."

"I am. Say hello to her for me."

"I will. She can't get in to see you, she's on late shift this week, but if you're still in at the weekend she'll come over then."

"I hope I'll be home by then."

"Me too." Charlie hesitated, then asked, "Should I ring your Dad?"

"No." The flat denial was out of his mouth before he could even think about it.

Charlie blinked. "Look, I know you don't get on, but—"

"No. There's no need for him to know." He was not going to give his father any excuse—any _further_ excuse—to call his capabilities into question.

"OK," Charlie subsided.

Rory felt foolish for having over-reacted. He reached out and grabbed Charlie's hand. The smile that such a small gesture of affection elicited was enough to make him feel even more guilty for his spurt of temper.

"Has the doctor been in to see you this morning?"

"Aye, she came in around eleven."

"Is everything all right?"

"I think so. She seemed happy anyway. She said I have to have a scan and some other thing to look at the arteries."

"What sort of scan?"

Rory shrugged. "Something about looking at the heart muscle."

"I'll ask Mum when I get home, she'll probably know."

"Aye, that she will."

"It's a pity we couldn't go to the Royal, she'd have been able to visit you then, and she could explain everything."

"With my luck I'd have ended up on her ward and she'd be bringing me bedpans. I think I'm better off here."

Charlie grimaced. "I hadn't thought of that bit. It would be embarrassing as hell."

"Mind you, it could be worse."

"How?"

"It could have been Tessa."

That cracked them both up.

~~~~~

Chris came round in the evening, Charlie having rung him as instructed. He brought the customary hothouse grapes and set them down on the table.

"Thanks, Chris."

"How are you? Charlie said you had a bit of a turn last night."

"Aye. I'm not so bad. It's not a full heart attack, the doctor tells me, just a warning."

"I suppose that's a good thing."

"It is."

Chris nodded. "I spoke to Ken last night and he stayed out of sight today. I think the polis will catch up with him tomorrow, though."

"Good. As long as he sticks to the story, they've nothing to use on any of us."

"Aye, I made sure he knows that. I don't think he'll be any bother."

"I hope not." He sighed. He knew the police would be back for a second interview, hoping that they would find discrepancies in their accounts, but with a bit of luck they'd hold off for a few more days until he was back at work. He didn't want them bothering him at home, where Charlie might overhear. Charlie was even less capable of holding a secret than Ken was, and while he hoped that Charlie hadn't worked it out yet, more than once he had caught Charlie looking at him oddly, speculatively perhaps. He'd never said anything, and nor had Charlie, but if the police kept on harassing him they would have to have a serious discussion. He couldn't afford any loose ends, not now.

He dragged his attention back to Chris, and asked about work. Chris gave him a rundown on the day's news—which wasn't much—and they discussed the tender they'd submitted the previous day. It was odd to think that it had been only a day ago—so much had happened in the twenty-four hours.

~~~~~

That night, as the hospital slowly quietened, Rory put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. He had some thinking to do, and since a day's forced inactivity had left him wide awake, he was going to use the opportunity to give his whole life some serious consideration.

He couldn't afford to let things slide any more. He was going to have to stand up to his father and demand some changes—or be prepared to walk away from everything he had built up over the last six years. It was stupid the way his father clung to the old ways, when the post-war world was dead and gone. Being a tough man didn't mean being on the wrong side of the law any more, especially not when the criminals were drug-dealers and predators. It simply made no sense to continue the loan-sharking side of the business, and the sooner Frank realised that the better.

After that, he was going to have to deal with Ken, and either secure his loyalty or let him go. Right now was a very bad time for that, given that he needed Ken's cooperation in the matter of Tuomi's death, but that couldn't be helped. He couldn't allow Ken to go on reporting his every move back to his father.

Finally, he had to face up to Charlie and the band situation. He thought about that for a few minutes and came to the conclusion that with a little luck and a bit of judicious manipulation he could probably force Charlie to postpone any decisions on the band offer for a month or two, and if he could achieve that, then there was a fair chance the whole offer would lapse and he would be safe. If not, then he would have to try more devious means, such as getting the right people know about Sinjin's drug use. He had a feeling that Northern Lights wouldn't be quite so keen on signing up a drug user on a long contract. If that failed ... well, then he'd think of something else.

With these plans in mind, he gradually fell asleep.

  
 _Friday 27th August, 9.30am_

It was with a mixed sense of frustration and relief that Rory greeted Dr Graham on Friday morning. After three days in the hospital he was out of his mind with boredom and his back was aching from the prolonged inactivity. He'd had the promised tests and as far as he knew they were all fine, so all he needed now was clearance to leave.

Dr Graham was accompanied this morning by Dr March, the consultant. Rory listened as one of the students ran through his history, and then he answered the consultant's questions reasonably truthfully. Dr Marsh read through the results from the perfusion scan and the angiogram and checked the daily ECGs he'd had.

Dr March appeared to be satisfied with the results and gave him the same advice about diet and exercise and staying on the blood pressure tablets even if he didn't feel they were doing anything. As soon as he had turned away, Rory looked up at Dr Graham.

"Can I go home now?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so. You're recovering nicely from the angina attack and we've made a good head start on getting the risk factors under control. Who is your GP?"

"Dr McKenzie in Whitefield."

"Oh, yes, I know her. You should make an appointment to see her as soon as possible."

"I will."

"Right, then. I'll write you up a script for medication to take until you can see your GP. We'll send her a copy of the discharge summary, of course. The nurse will give you a couple of information pamphlets on dietary changes you can make to help with the cholesterol."

Rory grimaced. He had a suspicion that pastries, curries and cream cakes were going to be forcibly removed from his diet, to be replaced by tasteless, low-fat, low-calorie crap. But maybe he could hide the pamphlets before Charlie came ... and of course there was always lunchtime. He mentally tallied up the number of takeaway food shops in the area around his office building and reassured himself that he could get a decent filling meal when he needed one.

The nurse brought him the phone so he could call Charlie, who promised to drive over immediately. Then followed a long wait for the discharge paperwork and the hospital pharmacy, but then he was free.

By four o'clock he was safely at home again, sitting on the sofa and watching Charlie fussing over him. He managed to get Charlie to sit next to him and snog for a while, but Charlie was adamant about making him rest and not letting him over-exert himself.

"I nearly lost you," he said, his eyes still dark. "I don't want to lose you for real."

"I'm tough, love. I don't break easily."

"I know, but ... "

"But nothing. Now go and get me a cup of tea and them come back and keep me company."

He dozed off for a while, only to be woken by the phone ringing. Charlie answered it and took the handset into the kitchen, but whatever he said was in too low a voice for Rory to hear. He waited until Charlie came back.

"I'm sorry it woke you."

"It's all right. Who was it?"

"Pat. I told him I can't talk to Liam just now. I can't make any decisions until you're better."

"What did he say?"

"He understood. He said Sinjin's having second thoughts too."

Rory noted that piece of information with a spark of gratitude. He looked at Charlie, who was biting a fingernail, a nervous habit he'd never been able to break.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"Right now, or about the offer?"

"About the offer."

"I ... I just don't know. But I do know I don't want to be away from you." He set the phone down in its cradle and then sat down next to Rory on the settee. "I've been thinking a lot, these last few nights—well, it's been lonely without you."

Rory reached out for him and pulled him in close. He didn't like the thought of Charlie being lonely, or anxious, or anything less than happy. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to be there so long."

"I know, and I'm glad you're all right. I was so worried, especially that first night, when the doctor said there was still a chance that it could be a heart attack. I was scared, Rory. I thought you might die."

"I'm not dead, and I'm not going to die anytime soon."

"I know, it's just that ... I don't want to be on my own again. I'm happy being with you and I hate it when we're apart."

"I hate being apart from you too."

"I don't want us to spend a night apart ever again. Not if I can help it."

Well, that was a lovely sentiment, and Rory heartily approved, but he had to say it ... "We'd be apart if you go on tour, or to an overseas studio to record."

"I know." Charlie fidgeted a bit and then said, in a small voice, "I don't want to go on tour with Liam and Sinjin again. I don't really even want to work with them again."

Rory barely restrained himself from crying out a hallelujah. For Charlie to admit this was a _huge_ step and he didn't want to risk upsetting him. Instead, he controlled his voice and asked, calmly, "Does that mean that you are thinking about saying no?"

"I guess. But I can't help thinking that this might be the only chance I get, and I don't want to lose it."

Rory hugged him more closely. "You'll have other chances. Better ones. The EP is selling steadily, word's getting around—you know the audiences are increasing every week."

"Yeah, but that's different. That's just the music."

"And what's bad about it being _just the music_? Would you prefer they came for the nail polish? Christ, Charlie, do you want to be respected as a musician or do you just crave the adoration?"

Charlie thought about that for a minute, then sighed and nodded. "You're right. It's the music I want. I mean, I loved being a rock star, I really did, but I love doing the clubs and pubs too. You get so close to people, you get to talk to them, not just stare at them from fifty feet away." He gave a shrug. "I'm just afraid that I'll never get another chance at a recording contract. I want to be a success, Rory, I do. I want to have my name on a CD in the top ten."

"Your name? Or some band's name?"

Charlie grinned. "My name. Yeah, my name. 'Charlie Pace, Britain's greatest singer-songwriter.' That would be really cool."

Rory smiled. Sometimes Charlie still looked and sounded like an adorably cute teenager instead of the supposedly mature 25-year-old he pretended to be. "My boyfriend, the famous Charlie Pace."

"I will be. One day, I will be."

"I know you will. I can feel it."

"Like that sixth sense?"

"Something like that. So, no more booking trips to Sydney? Please?"

"All right. My feet will remain firmly stuck in British soil—no midnight flights to Australia. Not without you, anyway."

"Promise?"

"I promise. And I'll tell Pat that I'm sorry, but it's just not going to work for me. If he wants to talk to Liam and Sinjin about re-forming he can, but I'm going to tell Northern Lights where they can stick their offer." He leaned forward and kissed Rory lightly on the lips, as if to seal his promise.

Rory felt the world tilt for second as a huge weight disappear from his shoulders, and he almost sagged with the unexpectedness of it.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Just felt a bit faint for a moment."

"It's the heat. I'll get you a cool drink." Charlie raced off to the kitchen to get a drink from the fridge.

Rory leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt better, now, anyway. It was just shock, anyway, as if the world—their world—had suddenly changed direction ... which, he mused, it probably had, in some arcane and metaphorical sense. He was glad he'd never told Charlie just how frightened this proposed flight to Australia had made him. He had brushed off the nightmares as a product of his subconscious mind influencing his dreams. Now, however, he wondered if he should have listened a little more closely to his grandmother and her stories about The Sight.

Had he really had a premonition of disaster? Some form of sixth sense? No, it was impossible. All that psychic stuff was a load of bollocks. This was just natural relief that Charlie had made a decision—the right decision—and was going to stay safe and sound with him. And if Rory had had to suffer chest pain and a few days in hospital to get that result, well, it was probably worth it.

Charlie hurried back with a large glass of iced water, complete with a wedge of lemon. "There's beer too, but I thought you'd better have the water first."

Rory took a deep swallow, wincing as he registered the chill down his gullet. "Thanks. I'll just lie here for a little bit. Why don't you bring the beer in and sit here with me? You can tell me what else you did today."

So Charlie got the beers and sat on the floor beside Rory and chattered about the new song he'd started writing and the visit that morning from Kevin (temporarily in disgrace due to an unlucky juxtaposition of cricket ball and back window) and the advert he'd seen for a Lord of the Rings convention in London that weekend and the latest results from the Olympic Games. Rory closed his eyes and let it all wash over him, thankful that the world was back to normal.

Charlie was his and only his, and that was the way the world should be.

THE END

  



End file.
